Said She'd Be Back
by betty woo
Summary: *WIP* Three new chapters, including 7.4 spoilers. This story tags along with the current season 7 plotline
1. Default Chapter

TITLE: "Said she'd be back"  
  
AUTHOR: Betty Woo (lwa@rocketmail.com)  
RATING: PG, non-specific reference to violence & sex  
PAIRINGS: Buffy/Spike. Kinda.  
SPOILERS: Starts at close of Episode 7.1, includes season 6 spoilers.  
FEEDBACK: Crunchy in milk!   
DISCLAIMER: Joss owns all the Buffy characters, and we love him for it.  
  
  
Said She'd Be Back  
  
"It's about Power."  
  
Spike didn't need to look up to see her. He knew just how she'd look, staring down at him in that disgusted way. She'd have her arms folded, that don't-mess-with-me pose she adopted whenever she knew that she'd gotten the upper hand. The one that made her look confident and strong and more perfect than ever.  
  
Not her. Spike shook his head, pulling at his hair. Not her. She'd been here, really here, and he could tell the difference. It looked like her and sounded like her. Hell, it even smelled like her, from the cemetery dust on its boots to that floral stuff she used to wash her hair.  
  
It'd been in one of the bottles, next to the tub. Next to where he'd tried to...  
  
Oh, God. Not her.  
  
"Do you want to hear my speech?" Spike rocked back and forth on his heels, hating the sound of his own voice. Even without the accent, it was the same voice. The one that lied to her, the one that promised things he could never keep.  
  
"You're beneath me."  
  
That he was, beneath them all, down in the dark where he belonged. Clasping his knees, he rocked like a child, listening for the long silence that meant he was alone again. He didn't know what was worse any more. Listening to someone tell him he was pathetic, or being alone so he could remind himself of that fact over and over again.  
  
But she'd said. Said she'd come back.  
  
"All in a row," he was mumbling, not that it mattered. "Not a duck, not a swan."  
  
He wanted to cry again. All he ever did anymore, cry in the dark. It almost made him regret all those times he'd made fun of Angel for doing the same.   
  
Astonishing, how many things he'd discovered to regret.  
  
"It ran. The speech. In the rain."  
  
Even if she said he was pathetic too. At least she'd be here.  
  
Down here in the dark, with him. He remembers that night at the Bronze, pulling her away from her friends and into the darkness, the softness of her cheek as his lips brushed it, whispering to her that she belonged in the dark.  
  
More lies. He'd done that to her, pulled her into darkness. And when she pulled away, when she escaped towards the light, he'd tried to pull her back, pulling apart that damned ugly bathrobe because he knew he could make her feel it, make her want him again...  
  
The pain snapped him back, like it always did. The only thing that could stop him from remembering in all too vivid detail exactly what he'd done. On his feet, it seemed, although he didn't remember standing, didn't remember digging his nails into his chest again. Tapping into a wound half-healed, dragging the skin apart, making it bleed.  
  
Better than he deserved. He could see her eyes moving across his chest, the way she winced when she saw what he'd done to himself. It was better than he deserved.  
  
"Shoulda been caned."  
  
But still. She'd be back. She said she'd get back to him. And she wouldn't want to see this. He ran bloody fingers through his hair, shaking at the effort of stopping. Wouldn't want her to see him like this. Wouldn't want to hurt her again.   
  
Trembling, he tugged the edges of his shirt closed, fumbled with the buttons one by one. Covering it all up, making himself look proper this time. He'd be ready, have his speech all practiced and everything. She'd be back, and this time he'd try not to let her down.  
  
* * *  
  
Even in the dark, this Sunnydale High looked brighter, and smaller. Buffy took the stairs two at a time, her body racing in tandem with her thoughts. She was getting better every day at managing the jumble of worries that filled up her life. Most of the time, she felt like she was on top of things again, dealing with Dawn and demons and all the rest.  
  
She fumbled in her pockets for the master key that Xander had provided to her that afternoon. Handy, having someone around who could ensure her access to the school during off hours. Not that locked doors would really have been a problem, but breaking and entering her new workplace before her first day was probably not in the Model Employee Handbook.  
  
The locked slide open with a gentle click. She put her hand on the door and started to push.  
  
Most of the time. But sometimes it felt like it was all going to be too much again, too much and too soon. She'd struggled so hard, trying to find a balance between her duties as Buffy, the Slayer, and Buffy, the person. Learned how to decide what things needed to be done right now, like clearing out that nest of vamps over on Violet Street, and what could wait.  
  
Her sister, growing up so fast and so often alone, that couldn't wait. Xander, needing someone to share a beer and his loss over Anya, that couldn't wait. Figuring out how she felt about Spike, knowing what she needed to say before trying to say it...  
  
Well, that couldn't wait either.  
  
She wasn't ready for this. All those months of wondering where he'd gone, pushing the things that had happened out of her thoughts, and she still wasn't ready.  
  
The lock slide back into place with the same gentle click.   
  
* * *  
  
Almost dawn. Even in the darkness, he could smell it coming, feel the tug of sleep pulling at the edges of his flesh. He leaned back against the wall, sliding down, pressing his weight back so he could feel the rough concrete grating against his skin through the shirt. Hungry as he was, it was hard to stave off the urge to rest.  
  
But he had to. If he slept, then when she got here he might forget something, might lose his place. And she said that she'd be back. He slammed his head back, smacking it against the wall. The pain sharpened him up, that's all. Reminded him of her, a little bit. So he waited, and went back to the beginning once again.  
  
"Buffy, I..." 


	2. Prayers for Rain

TITLE: "Said she'd be back: chapter 2 (Prayers for Rain)"  
  
AUTHOR: Betty Woo (lwa@rocketmail.com)  
RATING: PG, non-specific reference to violence & sex  
PAIRINGS: Buffy/Spike. Kinda.  
SPOILERS: Starts at close of Episode 7.1, includes season 6 spoilers.  
FEEDBACK: Now with twice the cleaning power!   
DISCLAIMER: Joss owns all the Buffy characters, and we love him for it.  
  
-----------------------  
"Prayers for Rain"  
----------------------  
  
Buffy groaned, twisting out of her sheets to reach for the alarm. Her bedroom was still dark, meaning that she'd actually woken up on time for a change. She groaned again, just for good measure, and staggered her way to the bathroom. Why oh why had she ever agreed to take on the opening shift? That's right, because she needed to keep her nights free for slayage.   
  
Not that there had been much action last night, she thought, pulling back the blue shower curtain and twisting the tap on. Just that one fledgling, a leftover from the Violet Street nest. The fight had only taken a couple of minutes, not nearly long enough to provide her with the clear post-fight headspace she'd been seeking. Not even a sore muscle to distract her in the shower.  
  
She'd redone the bathroom early in the summer. New towels and shower curtains weren't really in her budget, nor was the light blue paint she and Dawn had spent a fun afternoon splattering on the walls and each other. But at least it looked different now. Not quite the same room where...  
  
Buffy leaned her head back, letting the water spill over her, willing it to wash her thoughts clean. She knew she had to go back soon. He'd seemed so lost, so unlike himself in those few minutes they'd talked. She'd been surprised how much it hurt, to see him like that. Hurt, and a little bit of anger. Through all the confusion of last year, the one thing she'd been able to count on was his confidence. It annoyed the hell out of her, most of the time, but at least it was there, one constant in a world that was falling apart around her. She always knew how to respond to his confidence, but this fractured Spike, that was something she didn't have a ready quip to deflect.  
  
Enough moping. Turn off the shower already, Buffy. Dry off, get dressed, leave a note for Dawn alongside breakfast. Go work a shift of Doublemeat joy. Time enough to deal with Spike after that.  
  
* * *  
  
"Little white flowers that dance upon the trees..."  
  
No, that wasn't how it went. Not part of the speech. Damn, he was tired. There'd been, what, two of those sodding bells already today. Or was that three? He couldn't seem to keep track of anything anymore, not even where he was in that bloody speech.  
  
Maybe he should stand up for a bit. Keep sitting here, back up against the wall and his legs splayed out in front, and he'd fall asleep if he wasn't careful. Dawn wouldn't have gotten cut, if he was careful. Standing, that was clearly the way to go. His knuckles were scraped again, didn't remember doing that. His knees buckled up to his chest and he rolled over, kneeling, pulling himself up against the rough-hewn wall. It'd been a couple of hours. Maybe. Maybe not. Better check again, just in case.  
  
Shut your eyes. The vertigo will go away in a minute or so. It always went away, just like she did, but it always came back. Like she said she would. And he didn't need to see for this. His hands ran across the wall, feeling out every crevice. Given time enough, he'd know every inch by heart.  
  
His fingers were fumbling with the buttons on his shirt again. Stop that, you stupid wanker. The wall. Smooth in spots, almost, but even where it was smooth he could feel the tiny little fractures. There. That little nubbin, it hadn't been pushed out like that before. He traced around the curve with his finger, brushing away the loose dirt, and felt it wriggle ever so slightly. Come to Daddy.  
  
Harmony used to like it when he said that. Silly bint. He'd treated her so badly. The nubbin pushed out a little farther, became a nob. Just big enough for him to get a grip on, one good tug and it was out, writhing in his hands. As he twisted it in half, a thin little squeal rang through the room, reminding him of that little girl in, hell, where was that?  
  
He'd killed her, just for the sport of it. And he didn't even have the decency to remember where it happened. He threw the small black mess in his hands across the room, turning to slam his knuckles against the wall. Pounding and scraping, making almost enough noise to drown out his sobs.  
  
* * *  
  
Nothing like the smell of processed vegetables masquerading as meat. Buffy sniffed her hair as she walked home, making a disgusted face. No matter how long she worked at that place, she'd never quite get used to the smell. At least her manager had been cool about cutting back her hours in order to accommodate her new job at Sunnydale High.  
  
Maybe I should take another shower before stopping by the school, she thought, rounding the corner onto Main Street. This conversation was going to be hard enough without personal hygiene issues getting in the way.   
  
Procrastination, thy name is Buffy. She tried shifting into her patrol headspace, steeling herself for a difficult task. Right, she thought. Just going to walk in there all casual, be strong, be confident Buffy. Just talk to the man. Okay, not man. Just a simple conversation... oh, look, something else.  
  
"Hi, Anya." Buffy waved a tentative greeting to the formerly ex-demon, walking down the street towards her. No matter how long she lived in Sunnydale, she was never quite going to get used to bumping into demons on the street.  
  
"Buffy. You smell like grease." Anya fidgeted nervously with her purse. They'd talked on the phone a couple of times over the summer, always a little bit awkwardly, but they hadn't actually seen one another in months. Anya wasn't sure on the protocol of dealing with the friends of someone you were supposed to be hating, especially when you'd recently slept with their not-really boyfriend.   
  
"And you changed your hair. I like it." What the hell was up with her dress, Buffy wondered. It looked like she'd lost a fight with an old lady's doily collection.  
  
"Thank you." A pause, while they both tried to figure out something to say. "Are you going to count your money now?"  
  
"Er, no. I was just going to swing by the school. To, uh, check on Dawn."  
  
"Right. Well, good luck with that."  
  
"Right. Bye." Buffy took three steps before spinning back around. "Are you busy right now?"  
  
"Actually," Anya paused, thinking of a dozen good excuses she could offer up. "Not really."  
  
Buffy grinned, gesturing towards the cafe across the street. "Good. Because I could kind of use someone to talk to. About some stuff."  
  
* * *  
  
Almost, what, midday? He could smell the sun's strength through the thick concrete, just under the dirt and the dried blood. He wanted to sleep so badly, sleep or feed, he couldn't tell which. It was all one long ache, had been ever since he crawled his way out of that cursed cave. Everything ached. Especially his eyes, something grating against the pulpy surface of the iris when he blinked. Bloody hell, was he lying face down again?   
  
This wouldn't do, not at all. She said she'd be back, and that'd make a great impression, him sprawled face down in the dirt. Just where he belonged. Bury him under, six feet under and let him rot. He'd be aware of every second, sure, be able to feel the worms digging their tunnels through his flesh, healing up the damage with his damned vampiric constitution so they could begin all over again. Better than he deserved.  
  
His hands slid under his shoulders and he pushed himself up, glad at the way the wounds on his chest sang out in agony. He wanted to tear them apart again, tear himself apart until he found the rotten little core that made him this way. Stumbling to his feet, he staggered around the room, searching for the flat blade of rock he'd used before to rake at his chest.  
  
"Ruler. Measure it out."  
  
Measure out his punishment to infinity and it still wouldn't be enough, not for William the Bloody. No. Said she'd be back. His mind whispered the words like a mantra, like a desperate prayer to the only higher power he believed in any more.   
  
He stopped, standing in the middle of the room with his shoulders hunched over, head hanging in defeat. Couldn't even wait properly, he couldn't. And then the blows began.  
  
Delicate hands, twisted into fists, pounding on his chest, pushing his shoulders away. He reeled back, but the fists followed, and then his back was up against the wall and there was nowhere left to go. Nothing to do but take the rain of blows. Like rain they were, a heavy summer downpour, too light to hurt but he flinched away from them all the same. It wasn't the fists that caused him pain.  
  
"No, stop. Get off me. Please, stop, please don't, no, no..." But this time it didn't stop, he didn't do whatever it was that stopped it. The voice just kept going until the words gave way to whimpers, to painful little moans, to sobs broken up by anguished, fragile screams.  
  
Maybe this is the way it really was. Maybe his memory of stopping was just another lie. He couldn't tell any more, couldn't separate the things he'd imagined from the things he'd really done. And this felt so real, so much more real than that moment every had. His knees buckled out from under him and he fell to the floor, his lips forming her name over and over in a silent cry for absolution.   
  
Hail Buffy, full of power. Prey on us sinners now and at the hour of our dust. 


	3. The Wailing Wall

TITLE: "Said she'd be back"  
  
AUTHOR: Betty Woo (lwa@rocketmail.com)  
RATING: PG, non-specific reference to violence & sex  
PAIRINGS: Buffy/Spike. Kinda.  
SPOILERS: Starts at close of Episode 7.1, includes season 6 spoilers.  
FEEDBACK: Rock around the clock  
DISCLAIMER: Joss owns all the Buffy characters, and we love him for it. Some lines have been lifted from Oscar Wilde's play "Salome" and Hans Christian Andersen's "The Ugly Duckling".  
  
CHAPTER 3 - The Wailing Wall  
  
Buffy stared down into the last dregs of her non-fat cappuccino. Forty minutes later, and all she and Anya had talked about so far was two movies that neither of them had actually seen, one shoe sale, four iterations on the Giles-in-England topic and the new Kylie Minogue single. Every few minutes, she thought Anya was about to ask after Xander, but she never did. It was enough to distract her from asking her own questions, though.  
  
This was ridiculous. Come on, Buffy. You've faced down a dozen apocalypses and your own death, twice. How hard could it be to ask one simple question?  
  
Damned hard. "Anya, were you ever in love as a demon?"  
  
Anya's spine straightened, almost imperceptibly. "Yes. Of course."  
  
"And how was." Buffy swallowed. What she wouldn't give for a hellhound or twenty to come crashing through the window about now. "It was different from when you were human, wasn't it?"  
  
"Not really. A little more obsessive, more focused maybe. I mean, with Olaf, I could go hours without thinking about him. But with," Anya paused, leaving the name unspoken. "I thought about him constantly. It was, well, almost annoying. In a good way. And the sex was much better."  
  
Buffy drained her cappuccino, simultaneously trying to make sense of the demon's comments and checking for a coffee mustache.  
  
"Are you saying that." Brain bad. Brain hurt. Finish sentence. "You weren't human?"  
  
"I lost my powers, which isn't the same thing. Mortal lifespan, no wishing, but getting a human soul back is a whole different gig. It's not like a free gift with purchase." Anya shivers a little, thinking about it.   
  
"But we all thought..."  
  
Anya fiddled with her spoon. "You all assumed. I didn't see any reason to contradict that."  
  
Come to think of it, none of us ever did bother to get the details of just what had happened to Anya after her necklace was smashed, Buffy realized. Giles must have done some research, but, well, she'd never paid huge amounts of attention to research that didn't directly involve impending doom. She wondered if the demon would notice if she gripped the edges of the table, just a little. Long enough to make her head stop spinning. There had to be something she was missing here. "Hang on, wait. Tara's spell, the one that made demons invisible."  
  
"Technically, it only made demonic powers invisible. Which I didn't have at the time."  
  
"Oh. But you and Xander?"  
  
"Yes, Xander and I," Anya said, staring deliberately at the plastic foliage behind Buffy's left shoulder. "Even without a human soul. But he'd never have believed me if he knew about that little issue. You saw how he was about, you know."  
  
Another name unspoken. Spike. Buffy wondered if this headache was anything like what he felt when the chip kicked in. If so, no wonder he was so irked at the Initiative boys.  
  
"Let me get this clear, because I've always been slow on the verbal. You fell in love with, him, even though you were a demon?"  
  
Anya nodded, still taking in the shoddy workmanship of the plastic leaves.  
  
"But I thought that demons couldn't."  
  
"Couldn't what, change? We can't. We don't. So it's not like falling in love, not like it is for humans. It's more like discovering something that's been there all along, only you couldn't know, because you hadn't met the person yet."  
  
"And once it's there..." Buffy's voice trailed off, thinking about the implications of this notion for Spike.  
  
"It never goes away. No matter how hard you wish it would." Anya stood, pushing some coins onto the table. "This has been unpleasant. I have to go."  
  
Buffy was too stunned to even wave goodbye to the demon as she strode out of the cafe. It meant that Spike had always loved her, from the first moment they met. But he had been in love with Druscilla then, hadn't he? He'd loved that crazy vamp enough to stop the world from ending. Unless...   
  
Unless it had been for her that he'd made that offer of help against Angelus. She remembered their first fight, so many years ago. Ran it over in her mind and saw, for the first time, the tiny flaws in his technique she'd never thought about before, those moments when he could have pressed his advantage to victory. The way he'd hesitated when he had her down, gloating instead of going straight in for the kill. Even then?  
  
She'd been hoping that talking to Anya would make it easier to go back into the basement for Spike. Not bloody likely. And since when have I been thinking of things as 'not bloodly likely' anyway, she wondered.   
  
The other half of the conversation didn't sink in until she was standing to leave, several minutes later. Anya. The sudden wave of sympathy for the demon made her stomach roll. Her hand flew to her mouth, sending the empty mug shattering to the floor.   
  
* * *  
  
They were leaving now, all of them, their youth and their life and their blood scattering out across the city. A few stragglers, but the smell of them stomping around above was less potent now, less tempting. Lead us not into temptation, for I will let you down every bloody time.  
  
She was waiting, waiting until they'd all gone home before she came back for him. That's what he'd been telling himself for a while now. He rubbed at the scabs crusting across the back of his hands, rubbed the wounds open again. He'd let her down time and again, but she'd never fail.  
  
"The flowers are like fire." Mumbling again. His fingers run through his hair, tugging at the tangled curls. Make himself look smart for her, make himself up all proper. Dirt on his pants, on his hands, embedded deep underneath his ragged nails.   
  
Filthy, that's what he was, filthy and evil. Not a monster, not quite any more. "But not a swan."   
  
Bloody Lady Macbeth, scrubbing at these hands that could never be clean again. Pathetic. His head jerked up, staring around in the dark. On the edge of his vision, a black shadow twisted across the floor. Instinctively, he flinched back, pulling into shadows in some vain hope that he might not be seen, might escape for just a moment longer. Then he remembered what he was doing, down here in the dark.  
  
In one fluid motion, he'd sprung across the floor, throwing himself at the shadow. The tips of his fingers brushed its leg, fumbling for purchase. Pulling it in close, he hugged it to his chest, welcoming the way its tiny barbs dug into his skin. For a moment, he just lay on his back, holding it to his chest like a struggling child. His tiny bundle of pain. Then he snapped its spine with a sharp twist of his arms and threw the limp form into the far corner, along with the rest of them.  
  
Broken in his embrace, just like everything else he'd tried to hold close. Blasted hell. That one had almost slipped past him, and all because he was too busy wallowing in his own pathetic state to pay proper attention. Pay attention, William. It's the cane for naughty boys who don't pay attention.  
  
Hell, but he was tired. Couldn't sleep. They'd give him the slip if he fell asleep again, and then he'd have to leave to track them down. And he couldn't leave. This was where he belonged, down in the dark. And besides, she said she'd be back. She said. 


	4. Crossed Wires

TITLE: "Said she'd be back"  
  
AUTHOR: Betty Woo (lwa@rocketmail.com)  
RATING: PG, non-specific reference to violence & sex  
PAIRINGS: Buffy/Spike. Kinda.  
SPOILERS: Starts at close of Episode 7.1, includes season 6 spoilers.  
FEEDBACK: Bananafishbones!  
DISCLAIMER: Joss owns all the Buffy characters, and we love him for it. Some lines have been lifted from Oscar Wilde's play "Salome" and Hans Christian Andersen's "The Ugly Duckling".  
  
CHAPTER FOUR - Crossed Wires  
  
Early evening, and the streets of Sunnydale rang with the all-too-familiar sound of the beep.  
  
"Hi, An, this is me. But then you already know that, because it's my voice. Unless this is some kind of voice-shifting demon trying to trick you. *pause* Uh, not that I always think demons are trying to trick people. Or other demons, for that matter. Right. *pause* This is going about as well as a land war in Asia, isn't it? Call me. Please?"  
  
BEEP  
  
"Hello, Buffy? Pick up, Buffy. I know you're there. It's not like you'd be out on a date or something. But if you are, and it goes badly, well, you know who to call. That'd be me, right? Don't call Hallie. Me. He left another message. Will you please tell him to stop doing that?"  
  
BEEP  
  
"Dawn? You can't expect me to believe that a 16-year-old girl has her cellphone turned off. I'm going to be patrolling late tonight, so Xander will be picking you up from Janice's at eight. Got that, eight? Not eight fifteen, or eight twenty. Eight. And no, you can't come patrolling on a school night."  
  
BEEP  
  
"Buffy? Giles. Look, there's been a slight change of plan. We're coming back, sooner than I'd anticipated. Actually, I'm staying here to finish up some research, so. *pause* Can you meet her at the airport? I'll email the details in a few days. Hope all is well with you and Dawn, and remember to put your weight on the ball of your foot with that backwards kick."  
  
BEEP  
  
Buffy snatched up the phone as the answering machine clicked off, indicating a disconnect. "Damn," she muttered, fingering the handset. She could call Giles right back, but this month's phone bill was dangerously close to overdue and another long distance babble session to England wouldn't help solve that problem. Besides, she wouldn't know what to say. Hi, I've got a new job, I'm not ready for Willow yet, and by the way, Spike's back and totally insane?  
  
That'd go over about as well as her request to train in four-inch heels. She smiled at the memory of his exasperated sigh and lowered the phone back into its cradle, looking around to find the purse she'd dropped in her rush to the phone. Stakes spilling everywhere, as usual. Some girls worry about tampons falling out of their purse. Me, I get the embarrassment of explaining Mr. Pointy.  
  
Running her fingers over the familiar wood grain, she grinned. When in doubt, kill nasty evil things. That always helped to clear her thoughts. Even if being the Chosen One put a crimp in your social plans, at least it came with a couple of perks.  
  
* * *  
  
His eyes jerked open, the world hazy for just a moment before snapping into focus. That was the moment he hung all his hopes on, that instant between the nightmares and the realization of waking. The fragment of a second when he forgot where he was and what he was. However hard he tried, it slithered out of his grasp, left him down in the dark and the dirt. Mired in William the Bloody.  
  
"Not a duck. Not a swan."  
  
"Well, I guess that would make you a turkey, now wouldn't it." Slick, smug voice, male. That sodding git who'd made Buffy for him. But nobody could make her, not really. And nobody could make him, either, however much he tried. And damn it, he'd been practicing his speech. Because she was coming back, she'd said so herself. Her real self.  
  
"And she's got you baked up real good, doesn't she Sparky?" That grinding slide as the voice changed. "There'll be time enough for feasts once I'm through, and songs written in my honor." Spike shut his eyes, trying to find some scrap of melody that might drown out the voice. Her song, of course, which led to the kiss, which lead to the... and damn, was he whimpering again? "Not that there will be many left to sing them..."  
  
"But I have patience." Footfalls pacing around him, heavy now, the faint light glinting off the military spit polish on the tips of those combat boots. "Everything's proceeding according to the mission plan, right on schedule."  
  
He could punch through his eardrums. But no, he'd tried that before, spent several days deaf and it still hadn't made the voice go away. "I believe," he muttered, softly as he could, "I must go out into the world again." It was never quiet enough.  
  
"Rude. I was talking." Antiseptic smell, medicinal and soapy. Out of place among the dirt and the dried blood. "Think she won't betray you, because you've gotten yourself all souled up? Think again. She couldn't forgive my Faith just one little slip, do you think she'd forgive all the horrible..."  
  
Not her again. Not... "wonderfully horrible things we did together. Remember the little twins, in Budapest?" His dark princess, leaning in close and wrapping her arms around him, enveloping him in her lilac fragrance. "Miss Edith still talks of them. And that Slayer..."  
  
"So much easier to kill than this one, wasn't she?" The lilacs rot as her arms shift away. Spike flinches, cowering as the ancient one leans over him. "But then, you were still worth something in those days. And you will be again, once you've finally accepted the truth..."  
  
Let it be Dru again. Let it be any of them, just not...  
  
"That you're beneath me."   
  
* * *   
  
It was a perfect night for patrolling. A fat, lazy moon cast a blue glow across even the dimmer corners of the cemetery, and the light breeze was just cool enough to keep her from breaking a sweat. Sadly, it didn't look like any of Sunnydale's more unpleasant denizens were taking advantage of the perfect weather.   
  
"Where are you, evil ones? A slayer with nothing to kill is a very bored slayer, after all."  
  
Buffy checked her quick draw for the 64th time that evening, striking terror in the hearts of a couple of fireflies. If only. A slayer with nothing to kill was a slayer with nothing to do but think, and thinking about the events of the last year was a one-way ticket to Broodville. Everything had fallen apart, and all her slayer strength had done was help make it worse.  
  
Are you real? That's a heck of an opener, she thought ruefully. Strong, forceful, really lets him know where you stand. It was his fault, honestly, catching her off guard like that, and in the middle of a fight no less. Certainly not the romance novel scene she'd been scripting in her head for just that inevitable moment.  
  
Maybe there'd be some action over by the mausoleums. Always some new nasty trying to move in, after all. She vaulted over a couple of tombstones on the way, just to get her pulse racing a little. Sharpen herself up, and maybe a fight would come along. Too late, she realized that her body had betrayed her once again, leading her back to his doorstep.   
  
How many times had she stood here last year on the threshold of this stone crypt, wondering what the hell she was doing? She thought about knocking, checking in on Clem. See if he knows anything about a certain slightly less peroxided vamp being back in town.   
  
Snap. A twig, behind the crypt wall on the right. Buffy smiled faintly and slid Mr. Pointy into the palm of her hand. Two long strides and a half spin, kicking back with her right foot (weight forward on the ball, thanks Giles). That ever-so-satisfying crack as her sole connected with something solid, pushing the shadowed figure to the ground. Continuing the spin down to one knee and the stake swung forward as she did her instinctive face and pulse check.  
  
Damn. Buffy jerked her wrist back just in time, halting the wooden point just an inch above the heart. I just can't get no satisfaction tonight, she thought, brushing the loose grass off her pants as she straightened up again.  
  
"What are you doing here, Halfrek?" 


	5. Working Late

TITLE: "Said she'd be back"  
  
AUTHOR: Betty Woo (lwa@rocketmail.com)  
RATING: PG, non-specific reference to violence & sex  
PAIRINGS: Buffy/Spike. Kinda.  
SPOILERS: Starts at close of Episode 7.1, includes season 6 spoilers.  
FEEDBACK: Supercalifragiliciousexpialidocous!  
DISCLAIMER: Mutant Enemy owns this universe, I'm just taking a non-profit tour.  
  
NOTES: I've decided to try something odd with this story, namely running it alongside the current season 7 episodes. Sort of like an "underplot" - things going on that they don't have time to show in a one-hour episode, although it's going to wind up AU once I get Jossed. I'm assuming there's at least a couple of days before Buffy starts her new job at the school. This chapter will be the last one set between Episode 7.1 and 7.2 - I will update the spoiler warnings as required.  
  
  
CHAPTER FIVE - Working Late  
  
"Goodness, you certainly are strong for such a tiny thing, aren't you?" Halfrek tittered in that nervous way that made her seem like a centuries-old demon trying to appear girlish. Which, well, she was. Buffy tucked the stake into the belt of her pants and helped the wincing demon to her feet.  
  
"Sharp reflexes too, lucky for you."  
  
"Indeed." Halfrek brushed the dirt off her top and felt through her curly tresses for stray leaves. "Well, no harm, no foul. Goodnight!"  
  
The vengeance demon turned to walk away, but Buffy fell into step beside her. If she couldn't kill something, she could at least distract herself with pointless conversation. "You still haven't answered my question."  
  
"Oh, I'm fine. Takes more than a stiletto in the chest to slow me down."  
  
"I didn't ask how you were. I asked why you were." Buffy glanced around, trying not to look back at Spike's old haven. "Here, I mean."  
  
"Just, looking for someone. You know."  
  
"In a deserted cemetery? At," Buffy paused to check her watch. "Eleven forty?"  
  
"Vengeance is a full-time profession, you know. Plenty of overtime, all of it unpaid I might add." Halfrek straightened the sleeves of her shirt nervously. "I've told D'Hoffryn a thousand times, a little bonus for working late wouldn't go unappreciated, but does he ever listen?"  
  
"You were looking for Spike." It started off as a question, but saying it out loud made Buffy more certain that she was right.  
  
Halfrek stopped and looked at her quizzically. "No. Have you seen him?"  
  
"No." Buffy hoped it sounded convincing, but the way Halfrek wrinkled her nose made her suspect that she'd laid on the conviction just a little too strongly. For the hundredth time, she wished that lying was included in the slayer superpower package.  
  
"Of course not. William wouldn't come rushing back here, now would he?"  
  
"Will..." Before Buffy could finish, Halfrek vanished, leaving Buffy staring at a chipped gravestone. She frowned, trying to recall why that chip seemed so familiar. Right. That K-something demon, the one with the multiple horns. Spike had chipped the gravestone with its shoulder, right before she decapitated it. Good times.  
  
Twelve cemeteries in this tiny town and not one of them that didn't hold memories of Spike. Buffy stared up into the sky. Enough with the procrastination. There were more dangerous tasks than slaying demons ahead of her tonight. Namely, talking with one.  
  
The lead pipe across the back of her head caught her completely off guard.  
  
* * *  
  
Halfrek appeared on the balcony of the Bronze, half in the shadows. A few couples were scattered around the structure, gazing down on the crowd or kissing in the dark. She should really be more careful about teleporting around mortals, she thought, remembering a recent memo from D'Hoffryn about that topic. Still, that was what she loved about Sunnydale. Nobody seemed to notice her little goofs.  
  
Leaning against the railing, Halfrek scanned the main floor for a flash of peroxide. There was plenty of highlight action going on, but none of them were the full-head bleach job she was looking for. Sighing, she tapped her foot impatiently. She honestly hadn't expected to find him here, but then she hadn't expected this little snit of his to last this long either. It was, well, worrying.  
  
The fact that it was worrying also worried her. Halfrek liked to think of herself as a live-in-the-moment kind of demon. You couldn't think too hard about the long-term implications of your actions, not in a job like hers. Get in, do what was requested, and get out.   
  
Still, she was pretty certain that Buffy had been lying, which meant that William was indeed back in town. Given that the Welcome to Sunnydale sign was still standing, he wasn't following his usual arrival pattern either. She'd already checked out the factory, Angel's old place, and now the crypt. If he wasn't in the usual haunts, then he must be somewhere unusual.  
  
The last place she'd expect him to be... Halfrek teleported, without even bothering to step back into the shadows. A second later, she wished that she had. She blinked against the sudden darkness, so sharp it took even her demon vision a moment to adjust. And there he was.  
  
Kind of. He looked a mess, his hair curling out in all directions, scabs of blood across the back of his hands. Mumbling too, so quiet she could hardly make out a word of it, if there were even words being spoken. Halfrek wrinkled her nose at the odor coming from the far corner, something like old meat left out in the sun too long. There was another scent underneath that, one she hadn't smelled for a very long time, so long now that she couldn't quite place the fragrance.  
  
"William?"  
  
He started at the noise, jerking back like a dog that had been beaten one too many times. He was nothing like the swaggering vampire she'd seen in Buffy's living room just a year ago, and she wondered briefly what had happened to transform him so. Then his eyes turned up to look at her, vivid blue against the blood-starved paleness of his skin, and it was her turn to flinch.  
  
"Cicely?" Such a lost voice. "Is this the beginning?"  
  
He was mad, she realized then. She'd driven enough men mad in her time to recognize that look, the piercing stare that could no longer distinguish between the real and the imagined. "What are you doing here?"  
  
"Can't you smell it? Burning away." He laughs, a frantic laugh that found nothing funny anymore. It went on too long. Halfrek started to fidget, twisting her fingers together, waiting for him to stop. "Just the three of us, three little nails all in a row."  
  
"Three?"  
  
"It's coming up through the earth." He turned away and laid his hands on the wall, caressing it like a lover. "Caerulea, carry you low."  
  
Halfrek glanced around, instinctively looking for the door. "Maybe I should get Buffy. Tell her that you're here."  
  
"No!" He shouted, rushing towards her in a flash of fury that dissolved a moment later. "The flowers are like fire. She wouldn't understand." For a moment, she thought he was going to cry. Instead, he knelt, hanging his head before her. "Why did you come back, Cicely? I only let you down."  
  
Her fingers reach out tentatively, brushing through his curls. "Bad poet, name of William. London was full of them. I just thought you should know that, well, it wasn't your fault. Nothing personal. I was just so busy that season and, hey, whoops." She giggled nervously, trying to drown out the little whimpers he made every time she touched him.  
  
"You're wrong. My fault, always my fault." He twisted away, crawling back towards the wall on his hands and knees. Halfrek felt a brief flash of pride in her handiwork, seeing him so broken. It really was quality craftsmanship. His whimpers grew into sobs and his arms gave out, dropping him to the floor.   
  
No, not his arms. The floor had started to tremble. Halfrek tried to steady herself as the rumble swept through the room, sending loose dirt tumbling down around her. Spike had curled up into a fetal position, clutching his knees to his chest as he cried. Perhaps I shouldn't just leave him down here, the vengeance demon thought. The floor shook under her feet again, more violently this time. Without a second thought, she teleported away.  
  
* * *  
  
"You do the hokey pokey and you turn yourself around."  
  
With a deft spin, Buffy staked the vampire clean through his Marilyn Manson shirt and stepped back swiftly, a trick she'd learned long ago to cut down on the hassle of dry cleaning the vamp dust out of her favorite clothes.   
  
"And that's what it's all..." Her voice trailed off, the exhaustion of the chase finally catching up to her. It wasn't like there was anyone around to appreciate her little joke, anyway. Doubling over, she clutched at her aching side. The first vamp, the one with the lead pipe, she'd taken him down quickly enough, but his pals had made a run for it. She'd caught up with the second one by the edge of the cemetery and polished him off with only a few minutes of trading blows, but the third one had taken almost an hour to track down afterwards.  
  
Buffy tried not to think about the fact that, most nights, she wouldn't have bothered to waste the time hunting a lone and slightly incompetent vampire through the twisting back alleys of Sunnydale. Now she had a stitch from running for so long, and a tear in her new pants as well. Not to mention the tiny fact that it was well after one a.m. and she was supposed to be starting her new job in the morning. Great advice she'd be able to give, half asleep and post-slayage sore. But she'd be at the school, which meant she could just slip downstairs during her lunch break and check in with Spike. Satisfied with her rationalizing, Buffy tucked the stake into her belt and headed for home. 


	6. Whistle Me a Tune

TITLE: "Said she'd be back"  
  
AUTHOR: Betty Woo (lwa@rocketmail.com)  
RATING: PG, non-specific reference to violence & sex  
PAIRINGS: Buffy/Spike. Kinda.  
SPOILERS: Episode 7.2, takes place during the episode.  
FEEDBACK: Smurfy goodness!  
DISCLAIMER: Joss owns all the Buffy characters, and we love him for it.   
  
NOTES: Was anyone else as confused as I was by Spike's sudden switch from nutbar to Mr. Suave&Together during episode 7.2? Takes place around the time when Buffy goes into the basement to find Spike.  
  
  
CHAPTER SIX - Whistle Me a Tune  
  
"What is it with you vampires, anyway? Give you a soul and poof! Personal hygiene goes right out the window."  
  
Spike flinched away from the voice, pure reflex, before he realized that it wasn't someone he'd heard before. Something new. Brash, a hint of Brooklyn. He cocked his head, peering up into the darkness. A short man, badly dressed. Funny hat tilted back from his forehead. Nope, didn't recognize him. But not a threat, so he went back to what he'd been doing. Which was...  
  
"Staring at a wall? Boy, do you need to get out more. There's this thing call television, remarkable invention."   
  
Something smacked Spike in the head, something soft and plastic. Pliable. He didn't need to look down to see what it was. He could smell the blood, even through the wrapping.  
  
"You need to eat something, kiddo. You're like a bird."   
  
Spike shifted his weight from foot to foot, still crouching down, hands around his knees. The footsteps circled him, faint smell of greased food and gasoline fumes. "There is blood spilt upon the ground," he muttered, then laughed softly to himself. So much blood. He'd drowned in it, long before he'd drowned in her.  
  
"Naw, no spillage." A hand reached into his frame of vision, picking up the bag of blood and waving it in front of his nose. "Come on. You're a mess, and you ain't gonna do her much good if you starve yourself to death before it even starts."  
  
The hunger was too much. It swept over him, like it always did, washing away all his good intent in desperate lust. Shaking, he grabbed at the bag and skittered away, burying his face in his chest as he drank.   
  
"I like to say that nobody's ready for the big moments, the ones that show 'em who they really are. And about now, I bet you're thinking that you've had your big moment, and you didn't much like what you saw." Spike could barely hear him through the rush as the blood hit his starving system. "But you're wrong. Your big moment is still to come. So buck up, kiddo."  
  
The empty bag crumpled in his hand, and he let it slip between his fingers. "Who are you?"  
  
The man leaned over and clapped a hand onto Spike's shoulder. "That's the easy one. Whistle me a tune and you've got my number. The real brain twister is, who are you?"  
  
Staring down, now, dark circles soaking into the floor. He rubbed them with a fingertip, spreading instead of removing. "She must not dance on blood," he murmured. "It is an evil omen."  
  
"Right. Come on, Spikey. We have to leave now." The hand tugged at his sleeve, urging him up. So up he is, flailing his arms out, pushing away the intruder into his darkness.   
  
"Not going anywhere." Loud. He must be shouting. "This is where I belong."  
  
"And annoying to boot. You really are like him in some ways, you know?" The figure was patient, stepping back. Giving him room to bluster, knowing it wouldn't last. It didn't. He crumpled against the wall, banging his head against his clenched fists over and over again. "If you're finished with that little display, maybe I can show you something. And then you can decide where you really do belong."  
  
"Closed up for the night." Like the sign on the Magic Box door. Hadn't stopped him and the Niblet. "Come again later."  
  
"You think I'm a man with time to waste? This is a one-time offer, my friend. You could still go either way, you know, but if you stay down here, well. Let's just say the betting booth will be closed for good."  
  
"It is not wise to see symbols in everything that one sees," he mumbled into the wall. "It makes life too full of terrors."   
  
"This whole crazy act, it ain't going to help you with the ladies." The voice sounded almost amused, but mostly just tired. "Lucky for you, she ain't no Salome, although she does seem to have done a good job of serving up your head on a platter."  
  
Spike turned, sliding back down the wall. "It were better to say that stains of blood are as lovely as rose petals."  
  
"Again, I say... Right? Look, I was sent to get you, so let's get with the getting. This ain't exactly the Taj Mahal you've been shacking up in, and I personally would like to get on with the less dank and depressing portions of my day. Are you coming or what?"  
  
"What." Spike covered his face with his hands, talking into his palms. "Said she'd be back."  
  
The footsteps made their way over to the door. "Well, free will and all. Look, kiddo, one last piece of advice. There are three kinds of guys that nobody understands. Geniuses, madmen and guys that mumble. It's fine if you don't want to be understood, but you should really figure out which one you are before it all starts."  
  
Spike looked up to see the short figure framed in the doorway. Cleared his throat, the iron taste of blood still on his tongue. "What starts?"  
  
"The beginning." The man sighed, sounding almost wistful as he continued. "Poor kid. Thinks she's had it rough so far. That's the problem with dying, makes you think you're ready for anything."  
  
"Saved her." Speaking through his fingers now, a bit louder. The Bit, louder, screaming her name from above. "Every night."  
  
"But nobody's ever prepared for the really big moments. Well, be seeing you." The man tipped his hat, delivering a cocky grin. The footsteps moving away, the door slowly starting to creak shut.   
  
"Wait." That sounded like him, but it couldn't be. Where was the anger, the hurt? It was just a voice. The footsteps paused, then came closer, shutting the door behind them.  
  
* * *  
  
Buffy eased open the basement door with a guilty look around. Not even ten minutes on the job, and she was already sneaking off to.. what? Not a tryst, nothing like all the times she'd snuck away from her friends last year. This was just, checking up on him. That's all. Something had Spike seriously wigged, and on top of her recent dreams, it wasn't something that she could just ignore.  
  
Damn, but it's dark down here. She'd have to compliment Xander on his handiwork with the mood lighting. Between the yellowish glow of the infrequent lights and the multiple shadows, the whole thing really screamed basement to hell. Now, where was that door again?  
  
Even having studied the school blueprints, she was having trouble finding her way through the twisting corridors. It was a shame Xander had only be responsible for building this place, instead of designing it. Buffy was certain he would have installed a lot more "flee in terror this way" signs to help out anyone who got lost.  
  
Rats, too. The school had only started construction a few months ago, and already the place was infested. She pushed down an un-slayerlike shudder and kept going. The hallway up ahead looked almost familiar.  
  
"Spike?" She hoped that didn't sounded as nervous as it did in her head. Days of planning and she still hadn't gotten past "hello" in her speech prep. What had she said to Willow, all those years ago at the Bronze? Live in the moment. Although she also recalled that advice had lead her friend straight into the arms of a hungry vamp.  
  
Behind her, a door creaked shut. She spun around, then chided herself for being so easily spooked. Still, Spike was down here somewhere, she felt certain of that. The last time she'd seen him... well, okay, the last time she'd seen him, he'd been out of his mind. But the time before that.  
  
She gave in to the urge to shudder. Although she didn't doubt her ability to fight him off if he tried anything, she'd prefer not to reawaken those particular nightmares.   
  
"Spike?" Quieter now, a little less sure. This was ridiculous. If he was down here, he would have heard her already. And if he didn't want to be found, maybe that was for the best. With one last glance around, she headed back towards the bright hallway above.  
  
* * *  
  
His mind was jumbled string, all the threads tangled up, memories and imagination knotted together. Him without a sword to cut through the mess. Spike stared at his hands, picking the knots apart. For a moment, he thought that he heard her voice, softly, calling his name. Betting on good. Her broken body, a terrible shattered doll crumpled on the ground. Hadn't seen Doc coming. Something coming, something he didn't see yet. The beginning.   
  
Spike pushed up on unsteady legs, still struggling to process the fresh blood coursing through his system. The man still stood, watching him, hands tucked into the pockets of his baggy pants. "Reach any decisions yet, kiddo?"  
  
Spike nodded, still unsure. "It's in the wall." Staggered forward a few steps. "Devours, from beneath."  
  
"Verheytek demons. Yeah, they're the first to come crawling out when it wakes up. But they won't be the last, nor the worst." Whistler stepped up, offering a shoulder for Spike to steady himself against. "Come on. At the very least, we can do something about that hair." 


	7. Prophesy

TITLE: "Said she'd be back"  
  
AUTHOR: Betty Woo (lwa@rocketmail.com)  
RATING: PG, non-specific reference to violence & sex  
PAIRINGS: Buffy/Spike. Kinda.  
SPOILERS: Middle of Episode 7.2, includes season 6 spoilers.  
FEEDBACK: Yes, I'm pathetically needy enough to care what other people think about my writing.   
DISCLAIMER: Mutant Enemy made this universe, I'm just taking a non-profit tour.  
  
NOTES: I've decided to try something odd with this story, namely running it alongside the current season 7 episodes. Sort of like an "underplot" - things going on that they don't have time to show in a one-hour episode, although it's going to wind up AU once I get Jossed.   
  
CHAPTER SEVEN - Prophesy  
  
"Don't chicken out on me now, kiddo."  
  
Whistler stood on the sidewalk, holding a broad black umbrella over the opening at the car door. Spike checked the sweatshirt hood and heavy black gloves one last time before he climbed out under the vital shade of the umbrella. Even shadowed from the sun, he cowered slightly, paranoid that the protective shielding would fail, leaving him to fire and dust.  
  
Whistler headed off across the vibrant green of the cemetery lawn, forcing Spike to keep pace if he didn't want to crisp under the California sunlight. He knew where they were going, even if he'd never seen it in the light before. He'd walked this path every night, 143 evenings in a row, four nights after the night he failed. Each pebble, each headstone they passed, were etched in his memory, none more so than the grave they stopped in front of.  
  
"Been here. Seen this."  
  
Her headstone was long gone, leaving behind a faint indentation in the smooth lawn. On the right, her mother's grave, a tasteful stone that captured the grace and elegance of the woman buried beneath. On the left, a new stone had been erected, small and delicate. It hadn't been here for long, given the lack of chipping that most Sunnydale memorials wound up acquiring. Spike focused his eyes on the engraved name for a moment, wondering how and when it had happened. Wondering, futilely, if he'd been able to prevent it if he hadn't run away from them all.  
  
"You've seen it, sure. But have you ever thought about what it means?"  
  
Spike's eyes traced up the thin trunk of the willow tree, planted beside the new grave. Young still, a few trailing branches that would some day blossom to offer shade and solace to those who came to visit. For now, they were leafless, stripped bare by the recent transplanting. Wonder how Red is holding up, he thought, feeling his knees buckle. He struggled to stay upright, within the safe shade of the umbrella.  
  
"Failed her. Broke my promise."  
  
"Slayers die in action all the time. Hazards of being the Chosen One. Or these days, the Chosen Two."  
  
Spike wondered what they'd done with her headstone. Ground it into marble dust? Stored it in the basement, ready to be re-engraved when needed? Or had some nasty thing come crawling along and claimed it as a trophy, a memorial of the fate that would catch up with her again someday?  
  
Whistler continued, ignoring the stifled whimper coming from his bundled-up companion. "Heck of a job, slaying. One little girl against all the evil in the world. The slayer and her power, united until death. Doesn't seem like a fair deal, does it?"  
  
Spike shook his head. Want to be back in the basement, in the dark. Far away from where I can do anyone harm.  
  
"But then, prophesy's always tricky. Slipperier than a soul in some ways. For instance, this whole Slayer thing. Only supposed to be one, then whammo! Modern medicine steps in and you've got two."  
  
"Leaving now." But of course he wasn't, couldn't go anywhere while the sun was still up.   
  
Whistler dug around in his pocket and pulled out a stack of photos, handing them to Spike. A dark-haired girl in modest dress, against a terra cotta wall. A punk girl with a shock of fuchsia hair. More besides, snapshots of young girls from different cities, different cultures, the only common thread among them the sharp twinkle in their eyes. Whistler reached over and took the top two photos from Spike, tucking them back into his pocket.  
  
"They're out of the picture already. Oh, and that one," Whistler paused, stealing back the bottom photo before Spike could glance at the image, "not for you to see yet."  
  
"Show me?"  
  
"Unfortunately, there ain't no easy diagrams. Any one of them could be the next. Of course, she'd have to die first. The power can only have one host at a time, after all."  
  
"Faith?"  
  
"Oh, that's right. There's the chosen one, and then there's the other chosen one. Both of them just as strong, just as fast, just as, well, Slayer-ish." Whistler takes back the photos, looking at them sadly. Shakes his head. "Shame. They'd have a chance, you know. If only they could tap into that power in time. But that pesky prophesy, says they have to wait. And prophesy is never wrong, right?"  
  
There's something there, in the words Whistler is speaking. If only he could clear his head long enough to put the pieces together.  
  
"Sorry, kiddo, but that's all I'm allowed to say." Whistler started back towards the car, taking the shade of the umbrella with him. Spike wanted to linger, but the tickle of sunlight across his exposed cheek sent him scurrying after the shade.   
  
* * *  
  
Leaning up against the tree, he felt the roughness of the bark through the thin material of his shirt. Never noticed that before, all the nights I've spent leaning here, watching her house. The leather, that's what was missing. The trophy. He hoped she'd burned it.  
  
Right. Time to get on with it already. He could see her through the front window, sitting across from Xander and the Bit in their living room. Some girl, too, dark haired. Anya, perhaps? He doesn't relish facing the prat again, but at least worrying about Xander's hostility took his mind off worrying about her response.  
  
Straightening up, he headed towards the house. Something's missing. That's right, the ritual stubbing out of the smoke beforehand. When had he stopped smoking? Funny, that. Didn't miss it.  
  
Come on, big bad. You've faced down a bloody god, and a little door is scaring you? Spike tugged at the bottom of his shirt, straightening it out again. It fit okay, but it just didn't feel right. One step, then another. There you go, up on the porch now.  
  
He thought about ringing the doorbell, but tested the handle instead, for old times sakes. Unlocked, of course. Last time he'd been this nervous was in Prague, that long horrible moment when he thought the mob had done Dru in. Thinking of Dru brought a rush of emotions, of voices, all the little lost ones they'd broken during their time together. He took a moment to clear his head, pushing out the thoughts with the only mantra that worked at all.  
  
Buffy needs my help. Repeated the thought, over and over, until the voices quieted into whispers. Best he could hope for, he supposed.  
  
He slipped inside, silent as the dead, watching her through the doorway. Heavy into planning mode she was, sharp and focused. He hadn't noticed before, but her hair had gotten long again. What the hell was he going to say? Nothing appropriate came to mind, so he settled on the inappropriate. Spent more than a century playing at being the Big Bad, surely I can pull it off for a while longer.  
  
"What you need is help. Fortunately, you've got me." 


	8. Saints and Martyrs

TITLE: "Said she'd be back"  
  
AUTHOR: Betty Woo (lwa@rocketmail.com)  
RATING: PG, non-specific reference to violence & sex in some chapters  
PAIRINGS: Buffy/Spike. Kinda.   
SPOILERS: Starts at close of Episode 7.2, includes season 6 spoilers.  
FEEDBACK: Better than chocolate!   
DISCLAIMER: Mutant Enemy made this universe, I'm just taking a non-profit tour.  
  
NOTES: I've decided to try something odd with this story, namely running it alongside the current season 7 episodes. Sort of like an "underplot" - things going on that they don't have time to show in a one-hour episode, although it's going to wind up AU once I get Jossed.   
  
CHAPTER SEVEN - Saints and Martyrs  
  
"Can we rest?"  
  
Oh, God, the smell. The smell of his flesh, searing against the cross. It's why stakes had always been her weapon of choice against vamps. She couldn't handle the smell.  
  
At first she doesn't budge, convinced it was a game, a trick of some kind. Yet another of Spike's nefarious plans to entangle the Slayer. The fear held her back.  
  
Then she moved, running towards the cross, pulling him off and throwing him to the floor. She couldn't look at him, at what he's become, at what he's done for her. She's seen what crosses do to vampires, can't bring herself to face the molten blisters on his chest, his arms. His cheek. The burns weren't as bad as the look in his eyes.  
  
"Are you crazy?" A broken record, all that their relationship had ever been. Tired and worn, trapped in a skipping groove until finally it came jarring loose.  
  
She could hear him moving, crawling across the floor away from her. She's vaguely aware that she's still clutching the stake, aiming it towards him. "Thought we'd covered that one already, pet."  
  
"I am not your pet." Cold fury in her voice, an anger swelling up inside, catching her by surprise. This man loves you so much he went to hell and back to reclaim his soul, and you're angry at him?   
  
She was. Furious, in fact, a primal rage that sang through her veins. The same anger that had driven her to hit him time and again, a fury she couldn't name, couldn't even look at for fear it might blind her with what it revealed about herself.  
  
"Right. Not my pet, not my anything." He had stopped moving now, staring off at the votive candles burning in the corner. "Still, my everything."  
  
He was trying to keep his voice strong and even, she could tell. For all his efforts, he couldn't mask the pain. It was the still that broke her rage, a wall of half-whispered longing against which the waves of fury smashed and subsided. Without the anger, it was all too much again. She was vaguely aware of the tears on her cheeks, the clatter of the stake against the floor.  
  
She walked towards him slowly, not wanting to frighten him. Already he seemed lost again, the fragile clarity he had struggled to retain during their conversation slipping out of his grasp. "Spike? Can you stand?"  
  
He laughs, brittle and fractured. "Does it look like I can stand it? All those voices, all those..."  
  
Crouching beside him, she waits, willing herself to patience. All she really wants to do is run away, bury herself deep down under her bedcovers and think about anything but the haunted way his eyes turn up to meet hers. But he needs her now, and she owes him this moment. After what he's gone through for her sake, she can't just run away from him now.  
  
She owes him. And in that thought, she found the seed of her anger. Whatever he might think, she never asked for this. Never promised to love him, even with a soul. But he'd gone and done it anyway, broken himself apart to become the kind of man he thought she wanted. Taken her words and found a way to force her to care. How was this different from all the other times he'd offered his help, not because he wanted to do what was right, but just to get a little bit closer to her?   
  
It was just like Spike, to do the right thing. But for all the wrong reasons.   
  
"Can you stand up?"  
  
In response, he struggled into a kneeling position, facing towards the back of the church. His eyes moved from her face up towards the cross. The flickering candlelight played on his cheekbones, his furrowed brow. Slowly, he planted one foot on the floor, pulling himself up with the help of a pew. Letting go, he swayed, finally losing his balance and gripping the wooden bar beside him for support.  
  
"Standing. Solid through, yes."  
  
She stood beside him, stepping in closer. Her senses hummed, standing this close to him, something between desire and fear. "Good. Go home."  
  
His eyes, still fixed on the cross. She backed away, slowly, her eyes fixed on his narrow shoulders. She expected him to say something, whisper her name. She knew that she'd break at the sound of his voice, go running back and throw her arms around him. But he doesn't.  
  
The church doors closed softly behind her. She made it half-way home before she started to cry again.  
  
* * *  
  
Anya stood off to the side, watching the paramedics load the injured human into the ambulance. Xander had wracked his brain for the last traces of field medical training from his military persona, managing to apply a compress to the wound that kept Ronnie from losing too much blood. Still, his collarbone had been shattered by the blow, and the medics were worried enough to be moving quickly, not asking too many questions. That was good. Anya didn't much feel like answering any more questions tonight. She had questions of her own that needed answering.  
  
Xander thumped the back of the ambulance and watched it pull down the lane, red lights spinning, before looking back at her. "You okay?"  
  
She thought about D'Hoffryn, about Halfrek's warning. About her job and her life and her lack of friends. About waking up every morning alone in her bed. No, definitely not okay. "I'm fine."  
  
"Again, you did the right thing." He had that smile on his face, that quirky half-smile he used whenever he wanted to hide his nervousness.  
  
"Could we not talk about that anymore?"  
  
"Fine." He shrugged, putting his hands in his pockets. "Can I walk you home?"  
  
Because Sunnydale is a big, bad scary place full of nasty demons. Because she was just a frail little girl who needed protection. "Fine. But don't get any ideas."  
  
They walked along the quiet sidewalks in silence, trying not to notice the places where the pavement was broken and jagged. She liked the silence. It let her focus on what was important, running over in mind again and again the memory of him walking away from her at the church, the way everyone just stared and stepped away when they realized that he'd left her.  
  
"So. What was up with Spike, anyway?"  
  
"Like you care."  
  
"Well, he hit you. I don't really like seeing that." He paused, a slight smile crossing his face. "Although I did enjoy the part where you threatened to kick his ass."  
  
"I can, you know. Kick his ass."  
  
"And if you're planning to in the future, please invite me. I'll bring popcorn."  
  
So you can't stick around for our wedding, but a slugfest you'll attend. And my priorities are whacked because I care about a dead puppy? 'He's changed."   
  
"So you said back at the Bronze. What was all that about, anyway?"  
  
"Spike," she hesitated. It'd be easy enough to tell him. Heck, she'd enjoy it, watching his narrow worldview crack with the news. "It's not my place to say."  
  
"Right. Looked like the same old Spike to me."  
  
She remembered the glow, that faint smell that even the fresh peroxide couldn't drown out. It was impossible, yet somehow he'd managed it. "Why do you hate him so much?"   
  
"Gee, let's think. Aside from trying to kill me and most of my friends repeatedly, you mean?" His voice was laced with sarcasm and anger, remembering old wounds.  
  
"Which is different from the times that Buffy tried to kill you, or Willow tried to destroy the world, or..."  
  
"Don't bring her into this!"  
  
"Of course not. Because this is different."  
  
"Yes. It is different. It's Spike."  
  
She stopped, waiting for him to turn around and stare back at her. "You know, Xander, sooner or later that excuse just stops working."  
  
Anya crossed the street and didn't look back, walking as fast as she could in her high heels. There's really no need to hurry, though. The silence told her that she's not being followed.  
  
* * *  
  
Stowing her brown jacket in the overhead bin, the slight redhead took a quick look around the Concorde. She'd been on one before, on her way over to England, although she didn't remember much from that trip. Just the long, dull silence of being trapped in her seat, a silent Giles beside her. Her head had still been too jumbled to say much, still reeling from the magicks and the violence. Giles had done nothing to break the silence between them, not until days later. Looking back, she realized he was probably in too much pain, even with all the drugs they'd given him at the hospital, to bother with conversation anyway. Even doped up, she has still been aware of his watchful gaze, alert to any little trick she put try to pull.  
  
She'd been too tired for such things. Maybe they'd kill her when she arrived in England. She didn't much care anymore.  
  
They'd left the day before the funeral. She knew it was happening, through her haze, but no one told her the specifics. She wanted to ask if they could delay, just for one more day, but the look on Giles's face when he told her to pack her bags made it impossible.  
  
Willow pressed her forehead against the cool glass of the plane's window and stared out into the darkness. London was lit up all around the airport, and the glow from the Heathrow buildings twinkled across her field of vision. All she wanted to see was the darkness.  
  
She could ask Buffy about the funeral. Provided Buffy ever spoke to her again. Willow wouldn't blame her if she didn't. She couldn't blame anyone but herself.  
  
Poseys. She'd wanted someone to put poseys on the grave for her. They'd been one of her favorites. By the time she found the voice to ask, the funeral was already over.  
  
Fidgeting with the seat buckles, she strapped herself in for the long flight ahead. Seven hours to New York, more to L.A. and then on to Sunnydale. Plenty of time to worry about all the fears she'd voiced to Giles, and the one she hadn't.  
  
Going home. Giles was right about one thing. She wasn't sure that she'd really be going home this time. Home was where your friends were, the people who loved you and cared about you. Maybe that didn't exist anymore.  
  
But Giles had missed the bigger picture. She pressed her head against the glass again, trying to push down the tears. Home was where she was loved, which meant she had no home any more. Rather, that her home was six feet under, a frail wooden box too small to contain the vibrant spirit that once sang through the discarded jewel within.  
  
It had been easy to tell herself that she was healing, in the unfamiliar rooms of the coven's school. Nothing there was soaked through with memories of her girl. Hiding a shy smile at the Bronze. Brushing her teeth at the bathroom sink in Buffy's house. Tucking her silken hair behind one ear as she curled up in bed beside her. Every inch of Sunnydale resonated with her, with them.  
  
How was she supposed to face all those places again, all alone? Her friend's hatred, the evil spreading from the hellmouth, even hell itself was nothing compared to facing the truth that everything was still there, however much it had changed since she'd left.   
  
Everything but Tara. 


	9. This Poem Sucks?

TITLE: "Said she'd be back"  
  
AUTHOR: Betty Woo (lwa@rocketmail.com)  
RATING: PG, non-specific reference to violence & sex in some chapters  
SPOILERS: pre-episode 7.3, contains a tiny spoiler about Anya in 7.3 (yes, I'm a wildfeed fan!).  
FEEDBACK: Is awesome.   
DISCLAIMER: Mutant Enemy made this universe, I'm just taking a non-profit tour.  
  
CHARACTERS: Buffy & Dawn; Spike & Anya & Drusilla & someone else...  
  
CAUTION: There is a spoiler in this story for 7.3 - not a big one, but the pure of viewing will want to wait until after they've seen the eppy to read.   
  
CHAPTER SEVEN - This Poem.. Sucks?  
  
Dawn was still planted in front of a late-night TV movie when Buffy finally pulled herself together enough to enter the house. Her face was probably all puffy and red, but it was nothing that couldn't be explained away with the old "vamp dust in my eye" excuse. She shut the door behind her with a deliberate thump, just to warn her delinquent sister that a lecture about school night sleeping hours was on its way.  
  
"Oh my God! Buffy, what happened? Are you all right?" Dawn led her sister to the couch, one arm gently around her shoulders. "Did he hurt you?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"Spike." At the name, all the warmth and concern leeched out of the young girl's voice. "Did he hurt you?"  
  
Buffy couldn't help it. She started to laugh. Not a healthy laugh, but something brittle and jagged. The kind of laugh that Spike had made when she first saw him.  
  
Fidgeting nervously with her sweater, Dawn stared down at her sister. She'd seen her sister scared before, angry and hurt, but never unhinged like this. "What happened?"  
  
Leaning back on the couch, Buffy pulled her knees up to her chest. She'd wanted so much for Dawn to be asleep already, the house dark and silent. Talking about it, saying it aloud, that would make it real in a way she wasn't prepared to deal with yet. "Nothing."  
  
Dawn blinked, stifling an urge to scream. Didn't they have an argument about Buffy shutting people out of her problems just a couple of hours ago? "Vamp dust in your eye again, is that it?"  
  
"Dawn." Buffy wanted quiet. She wanted silence and dark and Mr. Gordo under the covers with her. "It's complicated."  
  
"And I wouldn't understand, right? Because I'm just a kid."  
  
"No, you probably would understand." Buffy reached out, taking Dawn's hands in her own. "I'm the one who doesn't understand, and if I try to explain, it'll just come out this horrible, jumbled mess. Kind of like my spaghetti, only not so tomato flavored."  
  
"Oh." Dawn squeezed her sister's fingers tight. "I should get to bed. And I know that I should have gone to bed, like, an hour ago, but the movie was about World War One, which we're doing in history class next week. So it's educational, kind of. And besides, I couldn't have gotten to sleep until I knew you were home safe, anyway."  
  
Buffy wrapped her hands around her shins and rested her head against her knees, listening to her sister put away the remnants of her late-night snack in the kitchen. She closed her eyes, just for a moment, just to give her mind a break. Since Giles left, even before that, she'd been the girl with the plan. Always ready to deal with the next curve ball that Sunnydale weirdness could throw her way. But this. The whole mess with Spike had her stumped, and she didn't like the sensation at all.  
  
When she looked up again, a small mug of hot chocolate was sitting on the edge of the coffee table. She cradled the mug in her hands, savoring the warmth. A dozen tiny marshmallows floated on the surface.  
  
* * *  
  
Anya blinked, adjusting the hem of her dress with a practiced gesture. For some odd reason, teleporting always made her skirt ride up slightly. She'd thought about asking D'Hoffryn about it a couple of times over the centuries, but it seemed like such a little problem compared to the benefits of instantaneous travel.  
  
"There you are."  
  
The blonde vampire just stared at her, as if he'd forgotten that she was a justice demon again and could therefore teleport. It had been several days since they'd seen one another, it was true, but he usually wasn't that absentminded.   
  
"Why haven't you been back to your crypt?"  
  
Spike gestured around the room. "This is my home now." As he stepped forward, she could see the half-healed burns across his arms and chin, the mass of blisters and charred flesh running along the center of his chest.  
  
"Your old place was much nicer. Is that enough small talk?"  
  
"All the talk is small. Little words, too little. None of them big enough..." His voice trailed off, unraveling into a small, fractured giggle.  
  
"Aren't you going to tell me how you did it?"  
  
"With a pen. And some paper." He began patting down his chest and thighs, as if looking for something in the pockets of a long coat that wasn't there.  
  
"You did a spell?"  
  
"Thought it was a spell. For a spell. But they took the words away, called me William the Bloody and I knew. Words would never work, never be good enough."  
  
Anya crossed her arms impatiently, watching as he sank into a crouch, wrapping his long arms across his wounded chest. "Focus, Spike. Just tell me how you did it."  
  
"It had to rhyme, you see. Went looking and I found it, or thought I had."  
  
"How?"  
  
"Drusilla. She made me. What was I before that? What was I after?"  
  
That didn't make any sense, though Anya. Spike was clearly rather confused. Still, she'd heard the tales of Drusilla's visions, not to mention her uncanny knack for digging up the most obscure magickal artifacts. The tales also mentioned her capacity for clever and unpleasant retribution against those who had offended her. Given Spike's incoherency, perhaps his sire was involved somehow.  
  
"That's nice, Spike. How exactly did she make you?"  
  
He was rocking back and forth now, whimpering a little. "No more words. No more words."  
  
"Just tell me already, would you?"  
  
"Quiet!" He screamed at the wall, drawing the word out in a long roar of frustration. "There's nothing left to tell. Burnt all away, nothing left."  
  
Frowning, Anya watching the vampire trace letters on the floor with his fingertip. Clearly, he wasn't going to provide her with the answers she needed. But at least he'd given her a lead on someone who might.  
  
Anya reappeared just outside a tiny sidewalk cafe, with latin music playing softly over the speakers in the corner. Glancing around, she admired the brilliant patio lanterns, the multicolored swirl of dresses on the sun-kissed girls wandering past. She breathed in deeply, appreciating the fragrant blend of spices. It had been years since she'd visited Brazil, and she'd almost forgotten how much she enjoyed the way it smelled.  
  
Still, this wasn't a pleasure jaunt. She straightened her skirt and walked over to sit across from the pale, dark-haired girl with wide doe eyes. "Drusilla?"  
  
"Have you come to grant me my wish, then?"  
  
Something in her voice made Anya suspect that anything this woman wished for would surpass even her idea of a good vengeance time. "No. I'm here about Spike."  
  
"We haven't seen our Spike in a very long time. He was being a naughty boy, and so we sent him away. But he should have come crawling back to us by now." The vampire fluttered her hands as she spoke, as if stroking a kitten only she could see.  
  
"He said that you had done it to him."  
  
"Not I." Drusilla leaned in, like she was imparting a confidence. "She did it to him, that nasty girl. We were happy before she came along."  
  
"She?"  
  
"The Slayer. He promised we'd dance on her grave. When I heard she was dead, I went to see him." Drusilla's lip curved into a slight pout. "But he wouldn't dance with me."  
  
Anya rolled her eyes. This was making less sense than when Xander went off on one of his Monty Python rants. "How could Buffy have restored his soul?"  
  
Drusilla leapt back at the last word, as if she'd been burned. "His soul?"  
  
"So you don't know either?" Anya threw up her hands in frustration and stormed away. She'd had enough of this nonsense for one night. Halfway around the world and she still wasn't getting her answers, just a lot of prattle from stupid vampires. Besides, she had to be at the Magic Box early in the morning. Pausing at a small vending stall, she purchased a few tins of brazil nuts, since the ones she'd been able to find in Sunnydale tended to be a little on the stale side. No sense letting the trip be a total waste, she thought, stepping into an alleyway and teleporting herself back to Sunnydale.  
  
Except she wasn't back in Sunnydale. Pitch black, faint smell of brimstone and earl gray tea. Far too familiar, and exactly where she didn't want to be right now.   
  
"Anyanka."  
  
She spins, waving a cheery hello to the tall, bluish-gray demon who towered above her. "Hi, D'Hoffryn. Everything okay?"  
  
'I was going to ask you the same question." His voice was loaded with sympathy and concern. Anya knew from centuries of experience that this was not necessarily a good thing.  
  
"Oh, you know. Boils and spine removal, the usual."  
  
"Really? Because you're well below quota, and yet you just ignored a perfectly good wish request."  
  
"Vampire, though. Can't really grant those, can we?" She shrugged, flashing her most charming smile.  
  
"A woman scorned deserves vengeance, whatever her state." The sympathy in D'Hoffryn's voice had vanished. "And then there's the little matter of the spell you recently reversed."  
  
Anya swallowed nervously. She'd been hoping with all the other excitement going on that it might have slipped past unnoticed. "There were circumstances."  
  
"There always are. I know it's been difficult for you, after your years as a human, to get back into the swing of things. And I've tried to be patient." D'Hoffryn was pacing slightly, another not-good sign.  
  
"I really appreciate it."  
  
"But my patience has worn out."  
  
"Oh."  
  
"You have not been fulfilling the powers of the Wish. Until you get back on track, you will be restricted from teleporting except on official vengeance matters."   
  
D'Hoffryn waved his hand, and Anya winced slightly as she felt the restriction lock into place. Now how was she going to get to the laundromat? She looked around nervously, but there was really nothing to see but D'Hoffryn, and the expression on his face wasn't putting her any more at ease.  
  
"I will try to do better in future."  
  
"I know you will." D'Hoffryn strode into darkness, becoming nothing more than a resonant voice that filled up the empty space. "Her wish would have been most interesting. She longs to have her family back again, just as they were in China, on the night she was the happiest."  
  
Silence. Anya wondered if she was allowed to leave yet, and if the restriction would let her get back to Sunnydale at least.  
  
"Should she make this wish to you, Anyaka, I expect it to be granted."  
  
Then she felt the familiar tug and the world around her shifted, back to her apartment in Sunnydale. Exhausted, she slumped down on her couch without even bothering to straighten the hem of skirt. 


	10. Connections

TITLE: "Said she'd be back"  
  
AUTHOR: Betty Woo (lwa@rocketmail.com)  
RATING: PG, non-specific reference to violence & sex in some chapters  
SPOILERS: post-episode 7.3  
FEEDBACK: Five by five. I don't have a beta reader for this fic, so comments about how I can improve the story are always much appreciated.  
DISCLAIMER: Mutant Enemy made this universe, I'm just taking a non-profit tour.  
  
CHARACTERS: Willow & Buffy; Spike  
  
CHAPTER TEN - Connections  
  
Buffy felt her palms start to tingle where they rested against Willow's. She slowed her breath gradually, matching rhythm with the slim girl across from her. Slipping into the meditative state she'd thought was so totally lame when her first Watcher, Merrick, tried to teach it to her all those years ago. So much had changed since then. There were times her power still surprised her, it was true, but she felt that she was coming to understand it more every day.  
  
Relaxing into the posture, Buffy focused on seeing her strength as a brilliant white light, glowing inside her. Her mind cleared, nothing now but the breathing and the connection between herself and Willow. As the world faded away, she envisioned the light within her expanding outwards, pouring into her friend.   
  
The walls of self collapsed as their energies merged. Buffy could sense Willow's pain, feel the physical wounds across her stomach. More than just the flesh injuries. She could feel her friend's confusion and fear, grief over the things she'd done and tried to do, the aching little hole where Tara used to live. For a second, she worried about what Willow might be feeling from her in return. The thought tugged at the connection between them, threatened to push them apart.  
  
She'd missed Willow so much. Whatever she might see, whatever Buffy might have to explain after all this was done, she wasn't going to let it stand between them any longer.  
  
Buffy concentrated on the energy, emptying her mind of conscious thought. She could sense Willow taking in her strength, directing it through her body to recreate the skin that had been stripped away. All sense of time fell away. There was nothing but now, the energy that circulated between them, glowing brightly in their minds.  
  
Gradually, on a level that wasn't quite conscious, Buffy began to sense another presence, a thin thread of connection that shimmered unstably at the edge of her mind. Something that wasn't quite there anymore, but was still anchored to her. It flowed backwards, almost, skipping over little points here and there, thin and tenuous but growing ever stronger. And then it struck a node, a nexus, and everything flashed into brilliant white.  
  
Sand under her bare feet. Blazing sky overhead. Willow's breathing faltered, just for a moment, jarring Buffy enough to remember where she'd felt this before.  
  
The First Slayer. As the words formed in her mind, the energy came rushing back up the chain that had formed, blasting through all the little connection points. It struck the two girls like a hurricane, swirling up between their connected bodies and exploding outwards.  
  
Faces flashed through her mind. Kendra, just a pale shadow of the scowling girl, then a familiar brunette. The energy linked to Faith and continued on, an unfamiliar face, then more, the power coursing through each and continuing on. Buffy could dimly sense her body trembling as the energy raced through her, building until she felt sure that that her flesh would explode before containing anything more. And there was another face now, one she knew that she'd recognize as soon as it came clear...  
  
Then the world jerked back into focus, all sharp edges and painful light. Her hands were her own again, and Willow was muttering something not quite English under her breath. Buffy collapsed back on the bed, trying to hold the image of the strange faces in her mind, but they had vanished along with the energy.  
  
Finally, Willow was silent. Buffy smiled faintly as her friend's head came into view, blocking out her vantage point of the ceiling.  
  
"You okay?"  
  
"Like I said, mediation. Bigger kick than you'd expect for just sitting around being quiet."  
  
Willow had worry face. "Buffy, that wasn't just meditation. I don't know what it was."  
  
Buffy groaned, stretching her arms and legs out. She had a slight cramp in one knee from sitting too long, but otherwise the strange occurrence seemed to have no physical holdovers. "I hate to say this, seeing how you just got back and all, but..."  
  
"Research mode."  
  
"Big time."  
  
* * *  
  
Spike paced back and forth along the narrow hallway. He could have sworn it was wider just a few minutes ago, but even so, he didn't pay it much mind.  
  
Help. She'd come to him for help, and he'd helped. That was good. He didn't even stab anyone through the chest this time. For a second, he almost felt proud of himself. Until he remembered why she'd come to him for help.  
  
"Track the blood. All about blood, she dances on it you see, but she doesn't see it yet."  
  
Not because he was a man. Couldn't help because of that. Because he was a monster, that was how he helped her. Track the blood, kill the beasties, service the girl. She didn't want the man to help, no. Just the monster.  
  
He'd heard them talking, her and the whelp. Wanted to put him on a leash. Bloodhound Spike, puppy dog Spike. Stupid name, dog's name.   
  
What had he expected? That he'd tell her and suddenly everything would change? She hated him more than ever now. Not even hate. Pity. And barely that. Looked at him like a broken toy, like a dog that wouldn't stop yapping at the shadows.  
  
Didn't matter. Couldn't help as a man, fine. Fine. Help as a monster, then. Be what she needed.   
  
Spike pulled the wrinkled photo out of his back pocket and held it in his palm, pressing out the bent corners with his fingers. Whistler didn't know as much as he claimed to, if he didn't realize how easy it was to pick his pocket on the way back to the car. Still, there was something in the stuff that the ponce had been babbling, if only he could focus long enough to put the pieces together.  
  
Her mouth was open. Always talking, that one, didn't know the picture was being taken. Glossy brunette hair tumbling over her shoulders, squinting a little at the sunlight. Name like Dawn, you'd think she'd have no problems looking at the sun. 


	11. By the Book

TITLE: "Said she'd be back"  
  
AUTHOR: Betty Woo (lwa@rocketmail.com)  
RATING: PG, non-specific reference to violence & sex in some chapters  
SPOILERS: post-episode 7.3  
FEEDBACK: Five by five. I don't have a beta reader for this fic, so comments about how I can improve the story are always much appreciated.  
DISCLAIMER: Mutant Enemy made this universe, I'm just taking a non-profit tour. Poetry adapted from lyrics by Maria McKee for "My Girlhood among the Outlaws".  
  
CHARACTERS: Willow & Buffy, Spike  
  
CHAPTER ELEVEN - By the Book  
  
Willow yawned and stretched once more, less to wake herself up and more for the sheer comfort of the familiar routine. Early Saturday morning at the Summers household and here she was, sitting at the kitchen table in her pajamas, hands wrapped around a mug of hot coffee. Dawn was loading up on her morning fix of sugary cereal, while Buffy mixed up some weird protein shake next to the sink.   
  
It was just like old times. At least, so long as Willow overlooked the way that Dawn was carefully ignoring her. After yesterday's meditation session, Buffy had been all smiles and warm greetings, but the younger girl had pointedly avoided her for the past two days. Willow wasn't surprised at how quickly Dawn polished off her breakfast and stormed out of the house.   
  
"It's so nice to have a proper cup of coffee again," Willow said, taking another sip.  
  
Buffy pushed Dawn's abandoned dishes to one side and sat down at the table. "England's more of a tea place, isn't it?"  
  
"Tea. Crumpets. Cucumber sandwiches. Fried Mars bars."  
  
"Ew."  
  
"It explains a lot about the English, though. Anyone who'd commit such crimes against chocolate, well, they must be big on the self-punishment."  
  
Willow winced slightly as the words left her mouth. Bringing up English guys, not a good around the Buffster right now. Hopefully she'd assume that Willow had been referring to Giles.   
  
"Speaking of self-punishment, you ready for some research?" Buffy polished off her shake quickly, dropping the empty glass and Dawn's bowl into the sink.  
  
Right, thought Willow. New topic, safe topic. Certainly safer than English blokes. Willow hesitated, wondering for the fifth time since she'd woken up if she should mention what she'd seen in Buffy's mind while they were linked during the meditation.  
  
"Just let me get changed, and I'm good to go."  
  
Buffy shook her head. "No need to dress in order to fight the forces of badness."  
  
She led Willow over to her mom's old office space, the small nook next to the living room where Joyce used to keep her files for the gallery. The shelves that once held catalogues and art guides were now laden down with occult texts, the remnants of the collection Giles had left behind when he moved to England. Willow's old laptop was set up on the table. From the candy wrappers piled next to it, she guessed that Dawn had taken over hacking duties during her absence.  
  
Willow ran her hand along the spines of the books, luxuriating in their texture. Pulling one out at random, she let the pages fall open, enjoying the musty smell. As fast and useful as computer research had always been, Willow had grown to love the physicality of immersing herself in these battered tomes.  
  
Buffy flicked on the computer, waiting for the screen to warm up. "You sure you're going to be okay with this?"  
  
Willow started, replacing the book with a slightly guilty expression. "Yeah, sure."  
  
"The watcher's council sent over some books, to replace the ones." Buffy paused long enough for Willow to mentally add the unspoken words, destroyed in your Magic Box rampage. "It's nowhere near as complete as Giles's collection was, but there's a couple of databases online that have been good at filling in the gaps."  
  
"Right." Willow sat at the computer, setting down her coffee. "So where do you want me to start?"  
  
"Everywhere." Buffy pulled out a book at random and sat down at the table. "Those faces, for one. And from beneath, it devours, for two."  
  
"Huh?"  
  
"It's something I've been hearing, in dreams. For a couple of weeks now. I should probably have researched it before now, but you know me and the research, it's like coffee and, uh. Some unmixy things."  
  
Willow felt a twinge of guilt, thinking of her friend trying to hold the hellmouth at bay all by herself. Well, not all alone. Xander had been around, and Dawn had obviously been pitching in a lot more. Still, trying to do the work of a Slayer and a Watcher all at once was obviously wearing Buffy down more than she was letting on.   
  
"Nothing else strange that needs researching?"  
  
"Not that I can think of, unless you can find some prophesy that tells me the boots I saw last week at Neiman Marcus will be going on sale soon."  
  
Right, thought Willow, connecting to a bookmarked website that claimed to be a prophesy reference site. Female faces and nasties from below, she could find that.  
  
Just as soon as she looked up some stuff about vampires with souls.  
  
* * *  
  
Willow stretched, creaking her neck from side to side. She'd forgotten just how physically demanding research could be. Buffy had hung around for a while in the morning, looking stuff up, mostly old Watcher journals about slayer training techniques. Then she'd bailed to do some training of her own, in the makeshift gym that had been erected in the basement. Translating Sumerian texts with the background noise of Buffy whaling away on a punching bag, that had been nice. Like the old days, before Warren and Tara and bad deals with Osiris.  
  
Then Buffy had gone out for groceries, leaving Willow alone. That hadn't been as nice, but focusing on the text that scrolled past on the computer screen had helped her block out the loneliness, the occasional leap of her heart when the wind brushed against the house and she thought, just for a second, that she could hear Tara coming up the porch.   
  
Buffy would be back soon, she hoped, glancing at the notes she'd made on a pad of paper beside the computer. Not much to report yet, especially since she hadn't exactly been following the research trail that Buffy had outlined. A snippet of prophesy about a vampire and son, but she didn't quite see how that would apply to Spike, unless it was a reference to Angel killing Spike.  
  
Willow glanced outside the window, realizing that dusk was fast approaching. She'd spent the whole day at the computer, still in her pajamas. Comfortable as they were, it was probably time for a shower and something fresher to wear. She left the computer on while she stood and headed towards the stairs.  
  
The mouse moved. She caught the motion out of the corner of her eye, turning to stare as the keys on the computer began depressing one by one, as if being typed upon by an invisible hand. A protective chant came unbidden to her thoughts as she walked slowly back towards the computer.  
  
A new website, one she hadn't seen before, was loading on the screen. Willow could sense the spirit as she approached, felt it leave the computer and brush by her with a gentle touch along her cheek.  
  
The way Tara had touched her face, after they made love.  
  
"Tara," she whispered, but the presence was already gone, nothing there anymore but the faint glow of the laptop screen in the darkening room. Willow glanced at the screen, taking in the words.  
  
Sitting down, she called up her translation software and started piecing together the prophesy on the screen, her shower forgotten.  
  
* * *  
  
Buffy perched on the edge of the table, hoping it was just her slayer senses that made staying downwind from Willow seem like such a good idea. Her friend had the same enthused expression she always wore when she'd made a major research breakthrough, although events of the last year had made Buffy a bit more wary about Willow's enthusiasm about all things occultish.   
  
"Okay, so I still need to run this by Giles, cause I'm not too sure about the translation. Sanskrit grammar is pretty tricky, and there's a couple of words that I still haven't figured out."  
  
"No prob, Will. Just give with the gist."  
  
"The hellmouth's getting all rumbly."  
  
"Do we know who's doing the rumbling?"  
  
Willow fidgeted with her computer mouse. "The hellmouth."  
  
"Got that part. Who's the baddies?"  
  
"That's what I've been saying." Buffy let the notion sink in slowly while Willow rustled through her notes. "The mouth beneath opens, bringing. I can't be sure of the rest of this translation, Buffy."  
  
Willow had on bad-news face, which was never reassuring. "So you're saying the hellmouth is opening. Been there, done that, will do again."  
  
"Not opening. Waking. Um, here."  
  
Willow handed over her notepad to Buffy, who scanned through the scrawled annotations. "The thrice-born death rises from the grave, awakening the sleeping gate. The mouth beneath opens, bringing closure to the final Chosen One. Sounds like a party."  
  
"Sunnydale style." Willow forced herself to smile. "I've been cross-referencing the thrice-born death thing, but so far no leads."  
  
"Funny, that. She's standing right in front of you."  
  
English accent, faint. Buffy and Willow turned together, staring at the peroxide blonde vampire lounging against the doorframe. Buffy sighed, mentally chastising herself for not locking the door when she'd gotten in. "Spike. Come with good news, I hope."  
  
"No such luck." He took two steps towards them, hesitant, holding his hands behind his back. Looking to his right, he smiled faintly. "Giving it to her now, pet."  
  
More with the crazy, Buffy thought, then remembered how he'd seen Willow when she hadn't, in the basement just a few days ago. Maybe not so much with the crazy. "Who's there, Spike?"  
  
"You. Died twice. Born thrice." Spike stared down at the floor, crossing the room with a hesitant shuffle. From behind his back, he brought forward a scrap of parchment that had obviously seen better centuries. He chanced a brief glance at Buffy, then looked down again, holding the paper out towards Willow. She took it from him, glancing at the strange lettering.  
  
"You'll want to check the slip, for authorization." He stepped back a few paces, giving Buffy room to move past him and study the paper over Willow's shoulder.  
  
"I think this is in Hebrew." Willow laid the paper down on the table and turned to the computer. "It'll take me a while to translate, whatever it is."  
  
"Before her, youth locked and unlocked. Behind her, love and death entwined eternal. On her right side, faith and loyalty. On her left side, life and death summoned." Spike hesitated, as if unwilling to continue. "At the center, the prophesy undone, shattering the final Chosen One."  
  
Buffy stared at the paper intently. She didn't want to see him like this, unraveled like a ball of yarn battered too often by a playful kitten. "Willow?"  
  
The redhead was busy typing away at her laptop. "Sounds like a ritual description, calling a circle or something. But I need to check the translation, and then do a ton of research to figure out what the heck it might mean. It's not a lot to go on. Where'd you get this, anyway?"  
  
Willow glanced over to Spike, but he was already gone, vanished from the room as quietly as he'd arrived. Buffy realized from her friend's sigh that it was safe to look up again. "Tell you what, Willow. I'll do the food thing, you do the shower thing, and we can deal with the research thing later."  
  
"That bad, huh?"  
  
"Didn't want to say anything, but pjs at dinner, not your best look." Buffy picked up the parchment, flipping it over. There were letters scrawled across the back as well, faintly written in pencil, a careful, upright script.  
  
IMy unlife among the outlaws was salty bittersweet  
The things I did, I can't escape now  
Though nights of lousy dreams  
Took a leap of faith and I stumbled  
Tried to change the bad man but I was humbled  
These visions gather in my head  
I find it hard to live with the things I did and said.  
But for you my pet, I'd live it all again   
And love you til the end/I  
  
"Huh. Don't get many prophesies in plain old English," Willow said, reading the text over Buffy's shoulder.   
  
Buffy shook her head, turning the page back over as she laid it down. Willow might not recognize the careful Victorian handwriting, but she did, from countless notes left on the fridge for Dawn, from shopping lists and poker tallies tucked away in corners of a dim crypt. "It's not prophesy. It's nothing."  
  
Buffy shut her eyes and hoped her friend would leave before noticing the way her hands had begun to tremble. 


	12. Back in the Box

TITLE: "Said she'd be back"  
  
AUTHOR: Betty Woo (lwa@rocketmail.com)  
RATING: PG, non-specific reference to violence & sex in some chapters  
SPOILERS: post-episode 7.3  
FEEDBACK: Five by five. I don't have a beta reader for this fic, so comments about how I can improve the story are always much appreciated.  
DISCLAIMER: Mutant Enemy made this universe, I'm just taking a non-profit tour.  
  
CHARACTERS: Willow & Anya (is anyone else as excited about 7.5 as I am? Woo Anya!)   
  
CHAPTER TWELVE - Back in the Box  
  
Anya was pleasantly surprised to see Willow picking her way through the wreckage of the Magic Box. Although she had offered her assistance in clearing up the mess, Anya hadn't actually expected her to show up, especially so soon after getting her skin peeled off by a demon. Buffy and Dawn had made similar promises of help with no such results, despite not having even a hangnail consumed by a warty hellbeast. Anya had assumed it was all part of the vast mystery of human social interaction otherwise known as "small talk". The name itself confused her, since she didn't see the point of calling something small when it seemed to take up such a large portion of people's time. Especially in light of how limited that time really was, what with mortal lifespans being what they were.   
  
"Hi, Anya." Willow stared directly into the demon's eyes, which made Anya wonder if her assessment of their magick together as sexy might be more accurate than the redhead was letting on. On second thought, Willow seemed focused mainly on not looking around at the wreckage of the Magic Box.   
  
"Willow. You came. That's very friend-like of you."  
  
"I figured cleaning would help alleviate my guilt even better than baking, in this case."  
  
The two girls stared at one another across the scorched remains of the familiar shop. It had been so long since someone had come to speak with Anya in a non-lecturing capacity that she was finding herself at a loss for words, while Willow was busy trying to squelch the little part of her brain that was worried the demon might suddenly decide to turn her internal organs into tapioca.   
  
"Right," said Anya, breaking the silence with forced cheerfulness. "I'd originally tried salvaging anything that wasn't damaged. But then I realized that there was a lot more stuff that was damaged, so now I'm trying to clean that out instead."  
  
Willow finally tore her eyes away from Anya to take in the rest of the shop. Even with her memories of having torn the place apart, the extent of the damage was surprising. Not a single shelf was still standing, books and artifacts strewn across the floor in random piles. The second floor balcony had collapsed down onto the back of the store, and the broken remains of the table that had been the center of so many Scooby meetings was slammed up against the far wall. The moldering smell of soggy paper and damp herbs indicated that the damaged roof had failed to keep out Sunnydale's infrequent rain, and shards of glass from the shattered windows had been swept into haphazard piles around the room.   
  
"Wow. Um, so where do you want me to start?"  
  
"Candles and incense," Anya responded. "Unless it's not safe for you to be around that stuff."  
  
"It's safe." Willow grabbed a cardboard box from the stack next to the old cash counter and started rooting through the sticky mess of old candles and stinky resins on the floor.   
  
Anya leaned up against the counter and watched the redhead work. It seemed rather strange to her, the idea of Willow being so helpful when the others, well, weren't. "How safe?"  
  
"I really wi..." Willow caught herself before the word slipped out. No wishing around the vengeance demon, she scolded herself mentally. "I'm just getting tired of everyone asking me that."  
  
"Well, maybe you'll keep that in mind the next time you have an urge to destroy the world."  
  
"I'm not." Candles, Willow. Focus on the candles. She felt momentarily grateful that her best friend hadn't gone ahead with his marriage to the incredibly annoying one, but squelched it down with a major helping of guilt and a side order of remorse.  
  
"But you could, and it makes people nervous." Anya nodded. "I get that a lot too."  
  
'No offense, Anya, and please don't turn me into anything crawly for saying this, but you do hurt people. It's, like, part of your job description."  
  
"People who deserve it."  
  
"Yeah, well. I thought that way about Warren."  
  
"If you're going to get all judgmental, you can just leave." Anya grabbed a box from the counter and stomped to the back of the room. She began throwing ruined books into the box, deliberately slamming them down to create a banging noise. Funny. It wasn't really that long ago that she would have liquefied someone's eyeballs to vent her annoyance, and she was surprised to discover that the loud noises were just as satisfying.  
  
"I, I wasn't trying to be judgmental. Honest. I'm the last person who should be trying on long robes and funny wigs these days."  
  
"Apology accepted." Anya stopped dumping books in the box, realizing that she actually did feel better. It was creepy and disturbing, along with the feeling better part. Something was definitely wrong. She was tempted to leave the store right now, but then Willow would probably ask her what was wrong. Or even worse, want to leave with her, meaning that she'd stop cleaning up. Given all the expenses of getting the store cleared out, turning away free labor seemed somehow wrong. With a shrug, Anya turned back to the books. She'd deal with it later. 


	13. Prophesy Girl

TITLE: "Said she'd be back"  
  
AUTHOR: Betty Woo (lwa@rocketmail.com)  
RATING: PG, non-specific reference to violence & sex in some chapters  
SPOILERS: episode 7.4   
FEEDBACK: Joss-a-licious!  
DISCLAIMER: Mutant Enemy made this universe, I'm just taking a non-profit tour.  
  
CHARACTERS: Spike & Buffy, set between the last two scenes of 7.4  
  
CHAPTER THIRTEEN - Prophesy Girl  
  
"And you will."  
  
Her eyes. There's something wrong with her eyes, thought Buffy, staring into the blonde girl's face. Then Cassie collapsed at her feet.  
  
"Cassie!" She dropped to her knees beside the girl, stunned. Not after all this. She couldn't lose her now. Buffy pressed her fingers against the girl's wrists. No pulse. Okay, maybe she just wasn't feeling it there. Her fingers moved to her throat, feeling around frantically. Nothing.  
  
CPR. The first aid training Giles had insisted they all learn after her encounter with the Master came rushing back, but not quickly enough for her liking. Tilt head back, pinch nose, breathe in for six, or was it seven? Quick, short breaths anyway. Cassie's lips tasted like strawberry gloss and duct tape.  
  
Chest compressions. Fifteen. Hold back. Full slayer strength could crack the girl's ribs open with a single push. Check pulse. Nothing. Nothing, damnit. More breathing. More chest compressions. Help. Need help.  
  
"Spike!" She hated it, hated that his was the first name that came to mind. Hated that she needed to call him. Hated that she knew he'd come. "Spike!"  
  
She could hear that prat stumbling around inside the library, moaning. She wanted to go in there and kick the shit out of him, but she couldn't leave Cassie. Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen. Nothing. She's comes back from the dead three times, four maybe? Cassie could come back. Like she did all those times.  
  
Except Cassie saw prophesies, instead of being written about in them. Buffy tilted the girl's head back, time for more breathing. Stopped when she saw the glazed absence in her eyes. Cassie's face was so young, so open. But her eyes.  
  
Just like mom's eyes had been. Just like Tara's.  
  
Familiar footfalls. A black boot toe, then another, stepped into the periphery of her vision. "They hurt the girl."  
  
Buffy didn't look away from Cassie's face as Spike knelt across from her. His hand reached out, fingers spread, trembling a little. They brushed along Cassie's cheek, then gently pulled her eyelids closed. She looked almost peaceful, sleeping, like that. Buffy wondered for a moment if that's what she'd looked like, when they'd laid her out in her coffin.  
  
911. She reached for her cellphone, then remembered she'd left it in her jacket pocket at the office. Shit.  
  
"Spike, I have to call for help. Stay with her."  
  
He nodded, never taking his eyes from Cassie's face. "Couldn't help." His hand reached down, lifting Cassie's small fingers between his.   
  
Buffy turned and ran, dodging another crossbow bolt at the next doorway, and raced to her office. Made the call. She hated making that call. Sometimes she wondered if the operators were getting to know her voice, from all the times she'd had to call in injuries and deaths over the years. Five minutes, they said.  
  
Spike was still sitting with Cassie when she got back to the library, petting the back of her hand and whispering something unintelligible under his breath. Her eyes went to Cassie's throat but it was still intact, the soft skin unbroken. He hadn't fed, then. She wondered if he'd thought about it. She hated that, with him, she always had to wonder about that.  
  
Seeing her in the doorway, he released Cassie's hand and stood, backing away slowly. "Tried to help." Like a lost boy, trying to understand why his puppy was all broken.   
  
"I know."  
  
Then he was gone, vanished back into the library and the darkness. She knelt beside Cassie, pushing a stray lock of hair back from her forehead, and waited for the ambulance to arrive. 


	14. Twinkle Twinkle Little Scar

TITLE: "Said she'd be back"  
  
AUTHOR: Betty Woo (lwa@rocketmail.com)  
RATING: PG, non-specific reference to violence & sex in some chapters  
SPOILERS: episode 7.4   
FEEDBACK: Much better than being beaten with my own rib bones.  
DISCLAIMER: Mutant Enemy made this universe, I'm just taking a non-profit tour.  
  
CHARACTERS: Spike & Anya (earlier than I'd planned, but if I don't place this scene before 7.5, I'm gonna get Jossed huge!)  
  
CHAPTER FOURTEEN - Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Scar  
  
"I'm a bad man."  
  
Spike pounded his fist into the wall. She hadn't liked it when he hit himself, so fine. Hit the wall. Evil in the wall, it was okay to hit evil things. Evil things like him. But She didn't want him to hit him.  
  
It hurt worse than the bloody chip, trying to make sense of her logic. She knew better than anyone how bad he was. She killed bad things all the time. But wouldn't kill him. Why wouldn't She kill him? Wasn't allowed to kill himself, that would be bad.   
  
It had just been a taste. A little nip from the bad boy, the one who'd tried to hurt the girl. Had hurt the girl. Spike had seen her, lying there like one of Dru's broken dolls, held her hand and felt it cooling under his touch. That'd brought back memories, oh yes, memories and the voices that went along with them. None of it good. He'd wanted to run away, scream at the voices until they were drowned out by his roars, but she wouldn't have liked that. So he sat quietly with the girl, held her hand, and waited until She came back.  
  
She said she'd be back. But She hadn't promised not to leave again. Why did he think She wouldn't leave again?  
  
Hand hurts. That's right, he'd been pounding it into the wall. Flesh all broken, one knuckle showing through. Good. He'd been a bad boy, taking that nip.  
  
She came back and he left, back into the library with the boy in the red robe lying on the floor and the lovely smell of blood all in the air. The boy had looked at him, asked for help, held out his hand and it was all covered in the blood. He'd already been bitten, ragged holes in his shoulder seeping out blood, going to waste. And he'd tried to hurt the girl. So what did it matter that he'd pulled back the boy's head and taken a taste? Little more than a taste, though. Would have been all if he'd had the time, but the footsteps were coming and the door was opening and he'd left the boy still alive.  
  
Still alive. But it didn't matter. She wouldn't have liked it. And it didn't even matter, not as much as he didn't like having done it. The boy was bad but William was bad too, a bad man for doing those things, for needing those things. For liking it so much.  
  
Keep hitting the wall. Hit it enough, maybe the evil would come out. Out of it, out of him. Didn't matter where it came from. Evil always came out in the end.  
  
"Can't escape it. I'm a bad, bad man."  
  
"Naughty, evil, wicked man." A voice like port wine, smooth and strong, intoxicating. His dark princess.   
  
Turning, Spike saw her watching him, her long dark tresses curling around her shoulders, those deep brown eyes staring at something only she could see. He froze, waiting for the shift, not wanting to provoke its ire once again.  
  
"What catastrophe brought you crashing down like this, my darling boy? The fish, they burn but they don't swim any more. Just flop around like the water's all gone."  
  
He couldn't look at her, not at it looking like her.   
  
"Why don't you say hello to me? I've heard what happened, but I'm not angry. Not any more. It's been so long, and I miss us. I miss my family."  
  
Drusilla stepped in closer, reaching out to caress his face. "Do you know what I wish?"  
  
* * *  
  
Anya pushed the door of her apartment open with her shoulder, struggling not to drop the heavy bag of laundry in her arms. Not being able to teleport was continuing to suck. Worse still, carrying heavy bags of anything made her think of Xander, who she used to be able to rely on to handle such matters. Before he'd proven himself completely unreliable by failing to show up for their wedding, she reminded herself, again.  
  
Dumping the laundry on the couch, she headed back to shut the door and noticed the slip of paper on the floor, just inside. Teleportation flight plans, paperwork with which she was becoming all too familiar. As she bent to pick it up, she felt the familiar tug of teleportation kicking in.  
  
"Oh, sh..."  
  
* * *  
  
Spike did a double take as Anya blinked into the room beside Drusilla. Hallucinating multiple ex-lovers, especially when one was a vampire and the other a vengeance demon, was taking it all just a bit too far.  
  
"...rimp." Anya paused, straightening her skirt and taking in the situation. "Hello Spike. Drusilla."  
  
"My Spike's been a very bad boy. He went away and left me all alone."  
  
Anya rolled her eyes. Obviously, D'Hoffryn had known this was coming and arranged for the little pre-approved teleportation trick. "If I don't unpack my laundry soon, it's going to get all wrinkled."  
  
"I wish it wasn't like this."  
  
"Hence, my presence." It was only the confused expression on Spike's face that prevented Anya from punctuating the sentence with another eye-roll.  
  
"Do you know what I wish?" Drusilla approached the blonde vampire, offering an embrace that he shrank away from. "I wish I could have my family back, just like we were in China. Do you remember China, darling?"  
  
Anya sighed. This was going to be ugly, she just knew it, but D'Hoffryn was keeping a close eye on her, and if she didn't follow the rules to the letter of their execution she was going to be in more trouble than just a little excess paperwork.  
  
"Do... Hey, wait. Didn't you say that you left him?"  
  
Drusilla turned, fixing the demon with a wide moon stare. "They all went away."  
  
"Yes. But in Brazil, you told me that you made him leave."  
  
"Because he was all covered in her."  
  
Anya thought back to Spike's state when he returned to Sunnydale after leaving Dru. She hadn't been paying much attention, really, but she distinctly recalled a lot of drunkenness on his part. And a lot of talking about how Drusilla had left him for a Chaos demon. "But you cheated on him with someone else, and you left him."  
  
"I had to find my pleasures somewhere."  
  
"Technically, however, you did the leaving. Which means you don't get the wish."  
  
Drusilla's lower lip quivered in a pout. "But I want a wish."  
  
Anya hoped her voice wasn't betraying how nervous she was. The situation involved a scorned lover, true, which meant as a vengeance demon she was obliged to offer the power of the wish. However, several years of handling tax forms had developed her already-keen eye for loopholes, and she was pretty sure she'd be able to make this one stick when D'Hoffryn questioned her about it. "Oh, there is a wish. But for the lover who was scorned. Which, in this case, is Spike."  
  
The two women stared expectantly at Spike, who returned their attention with a confused look. The voices had never been quite like this before, and he was starting to wonder if maybe they were really here. Which made him wonder, in turn, when exactly the high school basement had become Grand Central Station, because for a dank little hole it seemed to get an awful lot of visitors passing through.  
  
"Spike?" Anya stepped closer, keeping carefully out of Drusilla's reach. "Is there something you wish was different?"  
  
It was a trick, he thought. Had to be a trick. The voices were testing him, making him admit what he wanted. Not that they needed to. It was written all over him. Dru had seen it, that's why she left. Anya could see it too, what he wanted, what he'd done.  
  
"Hurt the girl."  
  
"Hurt who?"  
  
He didn't want to say her name. It hurt to say it out loud. Still, if it made the voices go away. "Buffy."  
  
Anya's fist tightened around her pendant. This could get ugly. "Spike, you know how this works. You have to say it as a wish."  
  
"I wish." He paused. They knew already, didn't matter if he said it aloud. "I could give Buffy what she deserves."  
  
"Done." Anya's pendant glowed briefly. It wasn't a proper vengeance wish, precisely, lacking the overt physical or mental anguish that normally went along with such things. But she figured it was good for a fair bit of anguish on Drusilla's part, so again, loophole. And it gave her a good excuse to teleport that annoying vampire girl back to Brazil.  
  
Spike started at Drusilla's sudden disappearance, turning his eyes back to Anya. It dawned on him that perhaps this wasn't a hallucination after all. Still, everything seemed just as it was. Dark basement, shifty walls, mental confusion, bloody knuckles. "So, that's it? Everything better?"  
  
"Not precisely." Anya frowned. Explaining the complexities of the wish was probably a bit much, given Spike's apparent confusion. "If you'd said, I wish everything was better for Buffy, then yes. But what you asked for is that you be able to give her what she deserves. Which may not be the same thing as better. Anyway, here you go."  
  
Anya held out a small, battered book to Spike. The leather cover bore scuffs and stains from years of abuse, and the yellowed page edges were jagged in spots. Instead of taking it, he just stared at her again.   
  
"The sooner you take this, the sooner I can leave."  
  
His hands reached forward, palms up so as not to spill any of his blood on the tome. "What's this?"  
  
"What Buffy deserves. I'd have gone ahead and made the changes, but you asked to give it to her yourself. So, bye." Anya tried to teleport back home, but it didn't seem to be working. Apparently. D'Hoffryn hadn't bothered to approve a return flight. With a sigh, she walked off in search of the stairwell. Her laundry would be horribly wrinkled by the time she got back.  
  
Alone in the dark again, Spike studied the small book in his hands. After all the hells he'd been through trying to make the girl happy, and everything she deserved had been distilled down into a handful of pages.  
  
He couldn't help it. He started to laugh. 


End file.
